


Driftwood

by MonoclePony



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Eddie's engaged and Richie is NOT happy about it, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Meddling Friends, POV Switches, Pining, Sad with a Happy Ending, Yearning, abuse mention, affair, closet cases, emotional abuse tw, established benverly, neither is Eddie truth be told, reunion au, wedding crashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 131,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: When the Losers organise a get together in a Maine lakehouse, Richie is cautiously looking forward to it. Not only does it mean he gets to see the only people he truly cares about for the first time in a long while, but he also has the chance to ask his best friend what the hell his problem is. See, Eddie has cut him off completely, and Richie wants to know why. It's got nothing to do with the way he wishes he had the guts to tell him how he really feels. He swears.Little does he know that he's been invited for another reason; Eddie is living in the shadow of his fiancée, whilst being plagued with dreams full of an emotion he refuses to acknowledge. This is one last meet-up before he gets married and his life changes. So long as Richie’s not there, Eddie figures he’ll be just fine. Because he promised.The Losers, however, have other ideas. And with Richie’s help, Eddie realises that the feeling he had when he was a kid? He can have that again. He can be brave, he can heal, and maybe – just maybe – he can have what he actually wants.Aka the Losers are homewreckers but everyone's okay with it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 337
Kudos: 260





	1. Richie Tozier gets a phonecall

It started with a message – it always fucking did.

For a piece of technology that hadn’t been around for very long at all, in the grand scheme of things, a text or a message or a phone call did a really great job of taking a seat in your mind and refusing to budge; an irritating set of freeloaders that drove you to distraction but were too important to lose.

But when this particular message lit up Richie Tozier’s phone like a beacon, just after midnight on a heavy June evening, he knew it had to be important.

He had stepped out of a downtown comedy bar to take some air, the heat from his set and the building fading out into the muggy LA night. It had been a good set tonight, a good audience. He’d come off the stage brimming with an energy that fizzled and popped like raw fireworks, fuelled by the laughter and applause from the crowd. It was a sort of feeling he wished he could bottle, a fire and heat so strong he swore he ended the set fucking _glowing._

It had gone down so well, in fact, that Richie had stayed afterwards to nurse that glow. Shedding the persona offstage felt like leaving a favourite coat behind; after all, the crowd might love the Richie Tozier under the light, but out of them stepped a man they didn’t know. Couldn’t know. So for as long as he could he kept that coat of his on, even if he sweated and itched under the dim lights. People slapped him on the back, congratulated him, bought him drinks. He grinned, put on a Voice, recited a line they liked, and the whole bar fell about laughing whilst he stood there, basking. But he couldn’t stay there for long; eventually, like it or not, he had to step out of the heat.

Anyway, the message.

It pinged merrily in his pocket as he propped himself up against the solid brick of the building, and as he brought the phone up to his face he took a gulp of particularly gross beer. This bar always sold beer that tasted like ass, he’d found – and people were still dumb enough to drink it. But, alas, he was also people. He frowned as he saw the contact name. _Beverly?_

She knew he had a set tonight; she’d wished him good luck that morning. She’d still sent the first message halfway through the show.

[From: Bev, Sent: Yesterday, 22:32am]  
 _\- Hey, time to sort a Meet Up Extraordinaire. It’s been too long since we all saw each other! June 12 th, Long Lake, Lodge._

[From: Bev, Sent: Today, 00:09am]  
 _\- You’re coming._

Richie blinked. Meet ups were always tricky – they all had lives, all in different states and time zones – but sometimes the planets aligned in just the right way. He didn’t get to see any of them as often as he wished he could. The Losers, they called themselves. _His_ Losers, Richie called them – but only in his head. He was strangely proud of them all, for getting out of their hometowns the way they did; instead of rotting in Derry, they were rotting in classy apartments and fancy business suits. Except for Mike, who was very much rotting in Derry but also enjoying it so, hell, outliers are outliers. Still didn’t explain why Beverly had decided that midnight was the best time to arrange a social gathering.

He tapped out an instinctive reply and fired it back with a self-satisfied grin.

[To: Bev, Sent: Today, 00:30am]  
 _\- god bev at least let me pre first_

Comedy gold.

_\- also since when do you know my schedule? I could be busy being the funniest man alive on SNL or something  
\- also also the time?? Bev my love my dear my sweet angel why the fuck are you still conscious at what is clearly 3AM for you?_

It didn’t take long for a reply.

[From: Bev, Sent: Today, 00:34am]  
 _-remind me why we’re friends  
-we both know your weekends involve eating Nutella from the jar and bingeing crime shows on Netflix_

[To: Bev, Sent: 00:38am]  
 _\- I’m calling the police for character assassination  
\- you didnt answer my question why so late young lady?_

[From: Bev, Sent: 00:40am]  
 _-Just came back from the fashion showcase, mom. Remember? Besides Bill’s up and he got me talking.  
-Ben keeps groaning every time my phone beeps_.

[To: Bev, Sent: 00:42am]  
 _\- put it on silent you fucking animal  
\- why we meetin up whos dead? _

The next reply took longer. In the meantime, Richie hailed a cab and headed back to his apartment, the glow starting to falter and fade around him. Soon he would be back to plain ol’ Richie. Richie the Trashmouth. Richie the kid from Maine trying to make something of himself before he’s found out. God, he missed the other guy already.

Beverly answered midway through the journey.

[From: Bev, Sent: 00:58am]  
 _\- NO ONE IS DEAD WHY DO YOU ALWAYS THINK THAT  
\- Does there have to be a reason to see my favourite guys?_  
 _\- Bill asked me._ _He just finished his book, Mike fancies a break and Stan always needs a break but refuses to accept he does._

Then there was a pause.

[From: Bev, Sent: 01:12am]  
 _\- Eddie’s coming._

He didn’t see the other message until he was dropped off at his block. He read the two simple words in the elevator up to his floor. The glow extinguished itself in a puff of air, like a snuffed out candle.

Once he was at his door, Richie called her.

“That is a low fucking blow Beverly Marsh,” he said the moment she picked up, “and you know it is.”

To his surprise, Beverly was remarkably lucid for someone who picked up a phone past 4am her time. “I figured you needed to know,” she defended.

Richie let out a huff as he unlocked his apartment door and kicked it shut with a foot. “You figured I needed to know because if Eddie’s there, I’ll go. Right?”

“Apparently,” was the smartass reply.

“Yeah, well. That was before the asshole stopped answering my calls.”

He heard the rustle of bedsheets as Beverly moved, sitting up in bed no doubt, and a disembodied curse from someone he knew had to be Ben. He felt a little sorry for him. A little. Then again, he was going out with Beverly, was a rich architect and was hot as all hell so all that sympathy died pretty quick.

“I’m not pretending to understand him, Richie,” she said, “but I know you want to see him. You guys need to talk it out, at least. What do you have to lose?”

His chest spiked at the thought. _Everything,_ he thought as he toed off his shoes and launched them in different directions, _every fucking thing._ “Dunno,” he answered, quick and biting, “he’s been doing a pretty good job of avoiding me, maybe that’s what he wants?”

“Do you really think that’s true?” Beverly answered quietly. 

“Dunno,” he repeated. It hurt to think about, and he shied away from it like a nervous horse. He moved further into his apartment, turning on the lights as he went to chase away any semblance of dark. Call it the kid in him, but standing in the pitch black never felt comfortable. “Who’s to say how the pissbaby’s mind works.”

_You did_ , he reminded himself. You used to know everything about him, back when they were kids. You could just glance at him and know when he was about to launch into a tirade or grab for his inhaler. The gap that stretched between them, decades long, had pushed them apart. Bev had been the one to bring them back, to nudge them back into each other’s spaces like rogue planets, and it had taken a lot out of him to do it. Richie had thought seeing Eddie again, trying to remember the integral parts of him, would be like relearning a language; he would recall a few parts and stumble through them with a semblance of knowing what the hell he was doing. It wasn’t like that at all.

Remembering Eddie was like remembering how to ride a bike, or swim, or breathe. It wasn’t anything Richie ever forgot.

“I don’t think he’s avoiding you,” Beverly said. “I think there’s something going on, sure, but…”

“Maybe his mom finally made good on her threat and smothered him to death from beyond the grave.”

“Be serious.”

“Maybe he’s found out what a dumpster fire I really am, then,” he quipped. Beverly didn’t say anything, but he did hear a sharp intake of breath. Shit. He’d used the Comedian Voice too, the one he thought he’d perfected, but the joke fell flat. They always did when there was too much truth to them: when they bit just a little too deep, drew a little too much blood.

“Do you really see yourself like that?” Beverly’s voice was somehow even quieter, more subdued.

Richie snorted. “Come on, Bev. A, you know I am, and B, you’re my friend, not my therapist.”

“It’s hard not to psychoanalyse you when you practically ask for it.”

“Wow. Hot.” Unimpressed silence greeted his words. “C’mon, Bev. Work with me here. Maybe Eddie’s finally been absorbed into the corporate machine and become the robot he always dreamed of. He’s been logging us all like little person-shaped risks. And when he came to me, I overloaded the fuckin’ system.” Silence. He plunged on, trying so hard to make it funny but feeling the blood drip down from the wound he was making in himself. “I mean, you know if I was a building I’d be one of those… those ones that can’t be fixed. Maybe Robo-Eds has gone and nailed a ‘CONDEMNED’ sign to my forehead, given me up as a bad job, right?”

More silence. God, he’d fucked up. He’d gotten too deep. Beverly wasn’t laughing, but neither was he. He tried, a short hacking noise, but it died coming out of him. It just left him with an ache. _Goddamn Eddie Kaspbrak_ , he thought viciously as he plucked a beer out of the fridge. _Damn him, damn him, damn him._

“Oh Richie…” Beverly sighed down the phone.

He froze. Uh oh. He didn’t like that voice. That was the ‘we could talk about the thing we both know about because you told me when you were drunk’ voice. “Hey hey hey, don’t ‘oh Richie’ me. Don’t you dare.”

“But Rich, I hate hearing you like this. You’re not a bad job, not to hi-”

“Stop it.” He kicked his fridge door shut and leant against it, willing his hand to stop shaking. “Just… just stop, Bev, please? We don’t need to talk about this right now.” He was so glad she was thousands of miles away at that moment. No one needed to see him breaking out in a sweat, or gripping the neck of the beer bottle so tight it almost cracked.

“Okay, okay. We won’t. But you’ll have to face up to it sometime, you know,” she continued, the line crackling a little as she evidently got out of bed and padded through her apartment. “It’ll eat you alive if you don’t.”

“Then let it fuckin’ feast.”

“Mmph.”

Richie traced the imaginary journey with her, down the little hallway and out into the open plan living room. It calmed him down, stepping outside of his life for a moment and wandering into someone else’s. He wondered if she was stood looking out of her windows as she spoke to him, the ceiling to floor ones that always gave him vertigo whenever he visited. She had a high rise apartment, partly paid for by her divorce and partly by her own blood, sweat and tears. It was elegant. It was classy. It was everything the girls in Derry High School had said she wasn’t. Well, she sure as hell showed them.

Richie could see her now; Beverly Marsh, her freckles visible without the makeup to cover them up, standing there bathed in the multicoloured light of an unsleeping city. Beverly had never been afraid of the night, of the dark. She’d known longer than any of them that there were bigger things to be afraid of. He didn’t need to think of how she would be beautiful, stood there in artificial moonlight – he already knew.

Not for the first time, Richie wished he could love her. He wished with every bone in his pathetic body. But nope; he had to make everything so fucking complicated.

“Richie?”

“Mm?”

“Still with me?”

He yawned. “Barely. You should be more asleep than me anyway.”

“Too much champagne. Keeps me awake.” The line shifted again. She was moving now, maybe back down to her bedroom but more than likely towards the kitchen, where a pot of coffee was waiting. The others, Ben included, all thought she was nuts for drinking coffee so late, but she said the caffeine never bothered her. She slept like a baby either way. Richie could relate – he’d abused his body so much it simply breathed a sigh of relief and switched off any time he was horizontal. “Anyway, will you at least think about it? It’ll be nice, going out of the city for a change. And I know it’s Maine, but it’s not Derry.” She paused. “Bill said it was Eddie’s idea. I think he misses seeing the sky.”

Richie’s pulse thrummed in his ears. Eddie’s idea. Of course it was. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he liked the outdoors. When they were kids he’d told Richie it was the only time he felt free, away from his mother’s poking and prodding and worry. He liked how fresh the air could be and how the land around them seemed ageless; it was a sharp contrast to the choking skyscrapers and roads of the city. That was one of the reasons Richie had been surprised to learn that Eddie had moved to New York. It just didn’t seem to fit him. _That was years ago,_ a cruel voice in his mind sneered, _what the hell do you know about Eddie Kaspbrak now?_

Richie sighed, passing a hand over his face. It was no longer trembling – his internal battle had, once again, reached a stalemate – and he tucked his phone into the crook of his neck as he opened up his bottle. “Do I have a choice in this?” he asked.

_No, no, no,_ came his pulse in his ear.

“Always,” Beverly said, her voice so soft and gentle with him Richie wanted to scream, “but you miss him. You know you do.”

_Yeah, I fucking miss him,_ he thought with a huff. _Miss everything. The hypochondria, the angry bursts, the panic._ He missed him a hell of a lot, actually. Like a fucking gunshot. He sank deeper into his couch and stared up at his ceiling, willing for the answer to be written there. Failing that, he groaned. “Ugh, _fine._ I’m in.”

“Knew it!” Beverly said triumphantly. He could hear the smile in her voice. “You can’t say no to Eddie.”

“You ever tried?” Richie joked weakly. “The guy’s a guilt machine.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Bev,” he warned.

“Trashmouth,” she mimicked. Her use of his nickname made him warm. “I should go. I now have a Ben on my shoulder.”

“I think I have a cream for that.” He heard a sleepy, ‘beep beep Ri-eee’ from Ben, and Beverly giggled. Richie rolled his eyes. Monogamy. Uck.

“You two should go suck face so I can go the fuck to sleep,” he said fondly.

“Best idea you ever had,” he heard Ben said into the phone.

Beverly finally hung up as the clock on Richie’s side table flashed 2AM. She made him promise he would definitely, one hundred percent be there for this lakeside get together. Or was it beach? Ugh. He didn’t know. What had he agreed to, again?

He’d promised, anyway. And regretted it immediately. Once his phone went dark and the quiet of his empty apartment fell about him like a curtain, the heaviness returned too. The façade he’d constructed around himself since he was twelve never fit quite right in his own space; there were too many memories of casual encounters and anonymous nights pressed against his wall, creasing his couch and bunching up his bedsheets.

He ran a hand through his hair, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought. He’d thought about bringing someone home tonight. If he had, he wouldn’t have called Beverly. He wouldn’t have said yes to something he really shouldn’t have. And he wouldn’t be sat in the middle of his couch with a barely drunk beer like a fucking loser, pining over his best friend.

Pining. Fuck. Not pining. Missing. Missing was better. It soothed the little monster in his head.

Before he dragged his sorry carcass to bed, he unlocked his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He hovered over the contact reading, ‘Spagheddie’ for a full minute before he realised what he was doing. He dialled.

Eddie wouldn’t pick up. He kept his phone on silent in the evenings, it was 5AM where he was, and he hadn’t picked up the phone to Richie in six months. Richie was counting on it. It was probably a dud number now anyway – Eddie likely got new phones all the time from work – which was even better.

Richie closed his eyes as the clinical voice on the other end of the line recited the number he was calling, the number he knew like muscle memory, and asked him to leave a message. He waited, patient, until the tone bleated out at him. Then he heaved out a sigh.

“Hey, it’s uh… me again. It’s been two weeks since my last confession,” he joked, adopting one of the Voices he knew Eddie would roll his eyes at. “I’m here to confess fourteen counts of self-flagellation and carnal knowledge of one Sonia Kaspbrak, may she rest in peace. So what’s it to be, father? Ugh, God, that sounds like a kink, forget I said that.”

The lightness fell from his voice after that. This was sad enough without trying to make an answering machine laugh. He cleared his throat.

“Bev called tonight. You remember Bev, the hot one outta all of us? She called after my set. I told you about it last time we… well, last time I called. Pretty sure I breezed it, since no one came to kick my ass after. Maybe that was just school. Should’ve hired Bowers as my professional heckler, best nights’ work he’d do in his fucking life.” He paused.

“I wonder if you’d laugh. At the set, I mean. It’s new material, I’m trying something different right now. S’called Writing My Own Shit: more honest stuff, y’know, not just the recycled frat boy laughs I usually get.” Another pause. “I know you wouldn’t want me to _see_ you were laughing. You’d just turn away or give me that ‘I’m disappointed in you Richard Tozier’ look you perfected from my ma, but joke’s on you asshole because I know that means you like it. I reckon you’d laugh anyway. Everyone thinks your sense of humour is as limp as your dick but I know better. About your humour.” He coughed. “Or maybe… maybe you wouldn’t laugh. Maybe you’d just roll your eyes, walk away, tell me I’m a moron. I dunno. Lot of things I don’t know about you anymore, Eds.”

He paused again. He let himself drink in the silence of the apartment, let it seep into him the way it always did. Fuck, he needed a pet or something. Maybe a cat. Then he could have something be aloof with him all the time. He’d call it Bill, just to fuck with him. But _god_ , the loneliness hit him the heaviest in artificial light. Shaking himself clear of those frankly dangerous thoughts, he began again.

“A-anywho, Bev, she – she seems to be doing great. I’m happy for her, really I am. She got the ending she always deserved, right? After getting her out of that shitstorm last year I’m just fucking glad she has Ben. Still seems to think I’m worth talking to as well, which is a bonus. Nothing opens a door quicker than having hot friends. She’s a gem. That’s not a dig at you, by the way.”

He sank deeper into his couch cushions, taking a swig from his bottle.

“Actually, yes it fucking is, dickwad, I don’t have to be nice to you, this is just your answering machine and that robot bitch knows snitches get stitches.”

He toyed with the beer bottle, picking at the label before he continued.

“Bev _calls_ , Eds. She texts. She’d even fucking _email_ me if she wanted to speak to me so bad. Sound familiar? Probably not, since you do _none_ of those things.”

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Eddie’s reaction. He couldn’t quite complete the picture. It was the first time he couldn’t. It sent something crushing down on his chest at the realisation. “Guess you had your reasons,” he added, soberly. “Or you’re trapped down a well somewhere, in which case this message is even more pointless than I thought and you don’t need me, you need Lassie.”

He took a breath. He was rambling. God, he was talking to a dead phone and he was sweating over it like some spotty teenager in front of a crush. “Shit,” he said aloud, to the room as well as the phone. “Shit, this is… this is so stupid. I’m using your phone like it’s a fucking therapist, Eds, this is insane. It’s half 2 in the morning and I… I think I’m losing my mind because I miss you. So much it hurts.”

The quiet, the stillness, the night pressed around him, a single man in an infinite space. He let the feeling that ached through him expand and grow like an ink blot on paper or a beer stain on carpet. There was no panic, not like before with Beverly; this was just the emptiness, something he didn’t let get the better of him most of the time, but now? Now he had to let it go – just for a little while.

“Eds, you gotta know,” he whispered into the phone, cradling it carefully as he set down his beer. He was pleading, begging; it was pathetic as hell but he just couldn’t stop running his mouth, not now he’d started. “Please. I’m not gonna say it, I _can’t_ say it, but… you just gotta.” He blinked away the tears collecting in his eyes, swiping at his face with a grimace. Ugh, he shouldn’t be drinking. It always made him like this. “A-and I… I guess I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Then the panic came back. His next few breaths came out in shudders, his whole body trembling at the edge of a precipice he wasn’t quite ready to jump from. “Fuck,” he said, his voice a quivering echo. “ _Fuck_.”

He hung up, threw his phone down amongst the depths of his couch and buried his head in his hands. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, **_fuck._**

And in the dark, approximately 2700 miles away, Eddie Kaspbrak opened his eyes with a start.


	2. Eddie Kaspbrak gets a voicemail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for Eddie's pov! TW in this chapter for emotional abuse and internalised homophobia kay?

It wasn’t unusual for Eddie Kaspbrak to wake up in the middle of the night. It happened all too often, and not for any real reason; he passed all the tests, took all the drugs, and nothing changed. There was nothing medically remarkable about it; he just wasn’t a great sleeper, and it was something he’d come to accept in his thirty nine years of life.

Whenever anyone asked, he told them that his mind didn’t sit still – but that wasn’t strictly true. It raced, over barriers and through time zones at a speed that often left him dizzy. Back when he was a kid, the only running he could do was in his head, unless he wanted his mom to place him under house arrest. It was only natural that his brain just kept running, kept fleeing, whether it was from some invisible monster or his mother’s vengeful spirit.

Of course, the dreams didn’t help. They came every night, leaving him teetering on the surface of sleep instead of taking a deeper plunge.

Fond dreams. Warm dreams. _Wrong_ dreams.

Thanks to those dreams and his race car mind, Eddie hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in what felt like years. He thought it was the meds at first that gave the dreams their shapes. Side effects, he told himself, sprinkled like breadcrumbs on the ground. Part of him knew that wasn’t strictly true.

In the early hours of the June morning, he woke up with a jolt and struggled to sit up, rubbing a hand over his face as the memory of his dream still danced in front of him. A smile like a promise. Broad shoulders, built like brick. Hands, large and anonymous, closing around his waist and drawing him into a heat that threatened to burn. Eddie dreamt in components; nothing but sections of a body, broken down into its working parts the way he did with any brown enveloped project that hit his desk in work. He had to look at one fault at a time, one section at a time. If he brought it all together, tried to reason it out all at once, saw what it really was, well… it just left him with a headache and an overwhelming desire to bolt.

His body burned despite the chill of his AC, but not like a fever. This was gentle, a heat to match the one in his dream; a steady thing, something that could build itself up until he was on fire without realising. A sickness. It had to be. He’d been taking all the supplements in the world, a rainbow of them in fact, but something had still managed to fucking wriggle through.

He wondered if he’d made any noises this time; he always tried to bury his face in a pillow to suffocate them, he was always so goddamn _careful_. Had he called out a name? God, he hoped not. He glanced under the covers and breathed a sigh of relief. At least _something_ was still asleep.

Another body stirred beside him and Eddie froze, a rabbit in the headlights. Myra. For a moment, he’d actually forgotten she was there. He waited, but all she did was sigh in her sleep. There were no questions asked, and nothing came out from under the bedcovers to draw him close to her. Not for the first time, he was afraid she could see straight through him to where the dreams and memories slumbered. If she could…

Eddie didn’t like to think about that too much.

Things had moved fast with Myra; they met, they dated for a month or two, they moved in together in a nice place just outside of the city with great commuting networks. He knew how the guys talked in the office, about getting his feet under the table a touch too quick, but the hell to them because that was what Eddie wanted. Fast was good. Settling was good. Myra was happy, she loved him, and Eddie liked seeing people happy. Besides, maybe the dreams would stop.

Yeah. He would be so fucking lucky.

It didn’t take long; Myra heard him dream in the first week they were living together. That was back when Eddie hadn’t realised just how often he did it; he’d lived on his own before her, after all, and it was difficult to tell if he spoke in his sleep unless he woke himself up. She hadn’t said anything, not right away, but she had given him a look the next evening, offended and slightly hurt, that made him suspect it. Made him fear it. The week stretched on and the weekend arrived before she actually asked him. Eddie remembered just how well _that_ particular conversation had gone.

It happened on a rainy morning, a Sunday, over orange juice and his small cocktail of medication Myra had set out for him. She made sure to stand behind him, the looming shadow over him a foreboding presence that was just enough to make him nervous. He tried not to notice, not until she crooned, “Eddie bear?” in a way that made him twitch. Eddie had been quick to find out what that tone of voice meant; they didn’t have to be together long for him to know he was encroaching on dangerous territory.

He didn’t turn around. “Yes?”

“You’ve been dreaming. Especially last night.”

A chill flooded through him. Fuck, this was what he was afraid of. He didn’t want to remember it, but of course he always did. He didn’t need to know the details; he remembered how it felt. The remembered the heat, the rush. The dream had a voice that time, attached to a body he refused to acknowledge. It was familiar. Confident. Unlike himself. It terrified him.

He bit hard on his lip, and when he tried to shrug it came out like a nervous tic. “Did I?” he said, the effort of making his words seem light crushing him. “I, uh… didn’t realise. How did you know?”

He already knew the answer to that question. Why had he bothered asking? The shadow, Myra’s shadow, didn’t move. “Because you called out, sweetness.”

“O-oh? I did?”

“For someone.”

 _Fuck. He knew **exactly** who that was. _“Really?”

A hand descended on his shoulder, meaty and just a little clammy. It gripped him like a vice. She needn’t have bothered; he wasn’t going anywhere. “I think you know,” she said, her voice sickly sweet, “who it was, Eddie bear.”

Eddie ducked his head down, staring blankly into the depths of his orange juice. “M-Myra, it’s nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” she said in a sing-song voice. There wasn’t humour in it though, not like when she was teasing him. This was barbed with something sharp, something threatening that maybe no one else could pick up, but Eddie sure as hell did. It wasn’t something you ever forgot.

Every finger of Myra’s hand pressed down into his shoulder, and he was sure they would make little indents if she wasn’t careful. Didn’t know her own strength sometimes, she said. But she was a large woman. She knew full well what strength meant. Eddie only wished he did. “Sounded like you really needed him.”

Him. Just like that, Eddie’s defences went on red alert. He was like a room when an alarm had been tripped, and now he was blaring out a warning to all who would listen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tonelessly, nails digging into his fists as he sat there. “Dreams don’t mean anything, Myra. I can’t control what I say or do when I’m not even conscious, give me a break.”

“Don’t be sulky.” Myra pursed her lips, a kissing noise that sent a ripple of discomfort down Eddie’s spine. “I’m sure you could control it a _little_ , Eddiekins. It would be lovely if you could, for me.”

He winced. “Myra, please…”

“None of that, now.” She patted his shoulder and moved away, the weight rolling off him like a wave. She topped up his juice as she went, nudged his pill pot closer to him as a gentle reminder. “Do you know what I think? I think,” she said, that same sickly voice coming into play, “you shouldn’t speak to that man again. He’s clearly not good for you, if he’s making you think… things like that. And maybe stop watching that show of his too. You watch it too much, Eddiekins, and even before bed.” She sniffed. “He’s not even very funny.”

Eddie heaved out a sigh. She wouldn’t say his name. She never did, ever since she met him. “‘That man’ is one of my best friends, Myra. We’ve known each other since we were-”

“Yes, yes, you keep saying how you came from a backwards little town in Maine,” Myra said, her voice turning waspish, “so you can’t expect to have the best selection of children to be friends with.”

Eddie inhaled deeply. “I know you don’t like my friends-”

“They’re poison.” These next words came out whittled down to points that stabbed sharper than knives. “That… Denbrough, with his nasty horror books and the one who looks at me like I’m an idiot because I didn’t go to college like _he_ did. And that… that _woman_.” She almost hissed the word, like an angry cat.

“They haven’t done anything to you,” Eddie replied.

“But they don’t like me!” Myra cried. “I’m not stupid, Eddie bear. I know they don’t, and I know they want to take you away from me. But they don’t know you the way I do.”

 _No_ , Eddie thought to himself, with a sinking feeling, _they know me better._ But he didn’t dare say it. She was in front of him now so he could see her, blinking tightly so she could force tears down her face. It was a cruel trick, one she’d pulled on him a few times. When they first started dating, Eddie thought it was a little odd but felt bad that she pushed out her tears instead of talking through her feelings. Six months later and Eddie was immune to it.

He felt like the biggest piece of shit in the world, sat at the table watching his girlfriend cry. But he did just that, watching the tears track down her ruddy cheeks with the fascination of someone half watching a nature documentary. In fact, he even glared at her a little. He couldn’t do it, not to him; cutting off the person who made him want to both smile and punch the nearest wall was like cutting off a blood supply. It just didn’t seem possible.

Myra hiccoughed noisily at his scrutiny. “Oh, Eddie, it’s just not fair! They hate me, and the more you speak to them you’ll start to hate me too and that… that _degenerate,_ he’s just so dirty and rude and pathetic and he makes you feel like-”

“His name,” Eddie replied, his voice cold and biting, “is **_Richie_**.”

That was when the plate smashing started.

Afterwards, when Myra had stopped sobbing quite so hysterically and the remnants of the breakfast crockery lay around them like shattered snowflakes, Eddie promised he would do as she asked. It wasn’t the shower of china or the wild, trapped look in Myra’s eyes. He could handle that. What he couldn’t handle was what she _said_. The venom she laced the words with, and the smug look that told him she knew she had him right where she wanted him, was enough to stop him in his tracks. 

And so, Eddie learnt not to utter any of his friends’ names in the house, and especially not Richie’s. Myra seemed to like it that way. She got happier, he thought. Life got easier. She didn’t break anything else; she’d apologised over and over about the one time she had, and promised she’d never lose her temper again. Eddie understood. There were ground rules, unspoken but firm, and he’d broken them.

Willing himself to calm down, he leaned over and squinted at the clock on his bedside table. He had to be up in another hour. His sleep deprived brain wailed at how unfair that was.

A snore from behind him made him turn to look at Myra. Her eyes were still shut, but that didn’t mean anything. He knew she pretended sometimes, just to catch him out. Was she lying in wait to spot him leaving the bed before their alarm went off, Eddie wondered, or was she really just fast asleep? Despite the risk, he slipped out of bed anyway and, inch by inch, he began to move quietly across the room, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder every time he heard a single snore or shuffle. He didn’t have to get far. Just to the bathroom. Two metres away. He could do it. He could manage. 

When he reached the bathroom it felt like completing a marathon. Once he got through the door he immediately locked himself in. It took the sound of the lock sliding into place for Eddie to let out the breath he’d been holding in. They had two bathrooms, and this en-suite was small. It didn’t have a window, so it was locked in perpetual gloom if the light wasn’t on. Myra hated it. Eddie liked it.

Dropping to his knees, he slipped a hand between a loose tile under the sink. He fished around for a few seconds, his heart in his mouth as he searched. Had she found it? Was she waiting for him on the other side of the bathroom door, ready for a blazing row? God, he felt like a teenager hiding their secret diary from a nosey parent.

His fingers touched cool plastic and he let out a sigh of relief. Jesus _fuck_ , that was close. He sat back on his heels, brushing the dust off the old phone in his hand. He’d not put it there to hide it, not in the beginning; he’d put it there so he wouldn’t be tempted, so he could do this whole thing properly. When it had turned into covert secret spy bullshit was after he’d put everyone’s contacts back into his new phone without comment from Myra – except Richie’s.

He shook himself. _C’mon, Eddie, focus._ He got to his feet, still clutching the phone, and noticed the small green light blinking merrily at him. His heart lurched in panic. Shit, another one. A voicemail? Two minutes ago? He perched himself on the edge of the bath, tapping a rhythm on the back of the phone with his fingers.

It was Richie. Of course it was, he was the only one who would be up at such a godforsaken hour, or a stubborn enough ass to keep trying. The thing was, Myra was right; Richie wasn’t good for him. Richie carried all the symptoms of a sickness with him: heart palpitations, shortness of breath, a bruising so internal Eddie felt like he was being punched in the kidneys every time he heard him drop the idiot act and speak softly. But Eddie couldn’t let it alone. Despite it all, he couldn’t imagine a world in which Richie could make him _bad_.

That was why he had to stay away. Or else he’d get sick and Myra would tell and the finely ordered life he’d set up for himself would just crumble away. And Eddie wasn’t sure he could handle that. It was all for the best, really.

Still, he had his moments of weakness. This one happened to be at 5AM, in his own bathroom, with his girlfriend in the next room. _Fiancée,_ a little voice reminded him. _She’s your fiancée now. Remember that, champ?_

He remembered all too well. The evening, how stressed out he’d been, how Myra had known something was wrong – she just knew these things, knew it the way his mother used to know it – and Eddie had just panicked. He didn’t have a ring or anything. It was just sheer panic. Myra was delighted. She’d called her friends immediately, squealing down the phone like a girl who’d just been invited to prom. She wanted to get married right away, and by the end of the week they’d set a date for July. Eddie felt a little sick. He told himself it was nerves.

 _What a life you’re livin’, Eds_ , he imagined Richie saying. He then imagined punching him in the arm, which made him feel a little better. Man, fuck him. If only he could see him now.

He’d messaged Bill, told him he wanted to see them all. He’d told him about the proposal. Bill asked if he was sure. Eddie didn’t know, so the message was left unanswered. When Bill suggested going away for a few days after that, he jumped at the chance. It just happened to be that the only time they were all free was the last week of June – a month before the wedding. When he’d told Myra she was cautious. “I don’t like it,” she’d said, setting down a plate in front of him that was half her portion. “You out there, without me? With another woman?”

“Bev is with Ben, Myra,” he reminded her softly. “And believe me, it would be like dating my sister if we hooked up.” She stared at him coldly as he continued, “A-and it’s not just us. The others will be there. Bill, Mike, Stan…”

“Is That Man going?” she asked.

“No,” Eddie said, his reaction spiking him in the chest. “God, no, just the others.”

_Just the others. Just his friends. Just the people who he loved more than anything, who made his life so much better as a kid. There was no ‘just’ about it._

Back in the present, Eddie pressed the right button and brought the phone to his ear, sounding out the list of voicemails collected there. He always had the same routine: he would listen to some of the saved messages first. They were comfortable, familiar, ones that could talk him down after a panic attack (Myra called them asthma attacks, but he was nearly forty: he knew what they fucking were).

In total, there were thirty two. He knew the time stamps. He could recite them off by heart. Two were from Bill, one was from Mike asking if he was in town because he wanted to stop by (he’d met him on his lunch break for that. Myra didn’t mind Mike), and the others?

Well of course they were Richie fucking Tozier. The man wasn’t called Trashmouth for nothing.

Twenty nine messages, twenty-fucking-nine of them, and they drove him insane. And now there were thirty. Couldn’t the guy just take a fucking hint? God, he didn’t mean that. He hoped Richie never did.

Eddie had his favourite messages. He preferred the older ones, where Richie didn’t realise he was being ignored and simply thought Eddie was busy. They were light, dumb, inane messages Richie left about people on the bus, the new sandwich place he found, loud screaming about dogs he knew Eddie would love. Eddie liked how normal they felt. They were full of a humour he groaned at but still smiled for. A particular stunner told him to ‘get his dick out of those busted buildings’ and call him, which caused chronic eye roll syndrome.

He listened to them then, sat on the edge of his bath with a stupid smile spreading across his face. If he closed his eyes he could believe Richie was there, right in front of him, ready to dodge a smack or run away from Eddie furiously chasing him. He stifled a laugh and his eyes snapped open, shooting a glance to the door. It remained mercifully locked.

When the messages changed, so too did Eddie. As they went on they became quieter, less like the Richie he saw and more like the one he knew hid behind all the bravado and bullshit. Richie’s insecurity, his meeker voice, then his anger rising up like a dragon and all the same questions: why? Why wasn’t he returning his messages, why wasn’t he talking, what happened, had he done something wrong?

Eddie sank down to the bathroom floor, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to get up later. His bones creaked as he heard the voice on the other end become desperate, pleading, and finally resigned. Accepting. Richie was so sure the phone was dead, that Eddie didn’t have it anymore, but he still tried. He still hoped. Eddie wanted more than anything to shout “I’M RIGHT HERE,” down the line at him, but he knew it wouldn’t help. It would just bring on the sickness, and he couldn’t do it. Not to himself. Not to Richie.

He skipped through a number of those messages until he reached the most recent. He rested his back against the bath, shut his eyes and waited for the voice to kick in.

_“Hey, it’s uh… me again.”_

Eddie shut his eyes tighter as his chest squeezed tight. _I know. I know it’s you._

 _“It’s been two weeks since my last confession. I’m here to confess fourteen counts of self-flagellation and carnal knowledge of one Sonia Kaspbrak, may she rest in peace._ ”

“Fuck you, man,” Eddie said fondly. “God, fuck you.”

He listened to Richie ramble on for a little while, the joke slowly fading from his tone as he started talking about his recent comedy set and Beverly calling him. The passive aggression was in his tone even before he started raising his voice. Eddie hated himself for turning Richie into the monster on the phone, a defensive and angry kid who just had his favourite comic book ripped up in front of him with no explanation.

What broke Eddie Kaspbrak, however, was when after a pause Richie mumbled into the phone _, “I guess you had your reasons...”_

He hung up. He couldn’t bring himself to hear the rest of it. He felt empty, his body hollowed out with nothing in there to beat or bleed. Sure, he wasn’t sick, but maybe that was because there was nothing left to make sick.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he let the phone drop to the floor and buried his head in his hands. This was supposed to make it easier. This was supposed to make the bad feelings go away, the ones that slunk into his mind like robbers and took it over. But he was still dreaming, still hurting, still _aching._ It wasn’t fair, none of it. He wished he could just be over it, that he could move on with his life and marry Myra and be happy, but he just couldn’t. He just kept coming back.

A knock on the door startled him. “Eddie?” Myra cooed through the keyhole. “You okay in there? The lock didn’t jam again, did it?”

He recovered quickly. Scrambling to his knees, he began to move the tile back into place again as he called, “I’m fine!” over his shoulder like the coward he was. “I just… upset stomach. You know how it is. It’s the season.”

“I know, and there’s been such a nasty bug going around the wards lately,” Myra said. She didn’t sound upset; for someone who was employed to care about people, she did get a little too excited at the thought of an epidemic. “Might be best if you stayed home today, let me look after you if you’re feeling poorly.”

“N-no, that’s okay,” he said, wedging the tile back into place with trembling hands, “I feel better now. Think it was a false alarm.”

“Oh. Well, alright.” He could practically hear the pout from the other side of the door. She liked to look after him. She liked to feel needed. Eddie didn’t often give her that impression, apparently. Another notch in his ‘I’m-an-asshole-really’ belt, he guessed. “Well, I have your phone here. The Denbrough man messaged, something about that trip of yours?”

Eddie got to his feet with a wince. Bill. He unlocked the door to find Myra standing in front of it, waving his phone in the air. He couldn’t see what the message was, exactly, but it looked like a long wall of text. He put his hand out for it and after a beat Myra gave it over. “He wants to go back to Maine, he says, to one of the lakes. You do know that lakes are breeding grounds for all sorts of germs, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Eddie said, the survey answer he knew she wanted to hear. “I’ll be careful.”

“I don’t want you going in the lake, Eddiebear. I need my man fit and healthy for our vows.”

Eddie’s stomach squirmed unpleasantly. “Yeah,” he said, adopting a smile, “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of myself.”

She reached over and kissed him, the taste of her mouth sharp and lingering before she pulled away and pushed herself into the bathroom. “Make sure to tell him that, so he’s not disappointed. And, uh, Eddiekins?” she added.

“Yeah?”

“How are the dreams?”

Eddie swallowed painfully, fear flaring up in his chest yet again. “Good,” he lied, pushing the old phone further into his pyjama pocket, “they’re good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please comment if you enjoyed and you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf. I aim to update this every Tuesday, so hopefully it'll be pretty regular!


	3. Richie Tozier takes a trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's pov. Here we see a day (or rather, morning) of his life, and the arrival. Aaaaand the fallout. The fun begins!  
> TW for some homophobic slurs in here, it's a Bowers memory so you can imagine. 
> 
> As usual you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and please comment if you enjoy this chapter, or if the mood takes ya!

By the time Richie woke up, still in his clothes from the night before and the stale taste of awful beer fuzzed on his tongue, Beverly had given him all the details he needed. Turned out the date was set for the next weekend, which meant he only had a few days to get out of any plans he’d forgotten about and book a flight. Helpfully, Bev had already outlined the cheapest departures for him and the nearest car rental from the airport. He had to hand it to her, the lady was thorough. And keen.

He got through half of her in-depth directions, squinting against the brightness his phone spilled out, before he realised the smell of stale beer assaulting his nose wasn’t just from his breath. It also reached his bedcovers, the offending bottle still tucked in near his pillow. “God fucking damnit,” he proclaimed to the room, flopping onto his back and glaring up at the ceiling. “Thank you, world. Anything else you want to throw at me?”

The world kindly responded with a sudden spinning that sent Richie hurtling for the bathroom. Fuck his body, fuck drinking, fuck all of it. The sound of another message coming through whilst he was in the process of emptying his stomach of all its contents made him seriously consider the benefits of becoming Amish.

Once the room stopped spinning and he’d bundled all his beer-soaked bedding and clothes into a garbage bag, he took the walk of shame to his building’s laundry room. It was early enough that the only other person in there was an old lady from the ground floor who didn’t speak to anyone and owned about a hundred cats, so he didn’t feel quite so bad for emptying the whole bag into a waiting machine and leaving it to wash. He needed sustenance. Nectar of the gods, the first love of his life: Richie deserved a fucking coffee, if nothing else.

The closest place was such a frequent haunt of his that the barista behind the counter actually winced at the sight of him. “Oof, you look rough,” he commented. “Bad night, hon?”

“What, this?” Richie gestured to himself. “Had an exceptional night, Adey. Really. My life’s dream to drink my liver’s weight in terrible beer and pass out in my bed.” He neared the counter and flashed his card under the barista’s nose. “C’mon. Hit me with some of that sweet, sweet bean fluid.”

The barista wrinkled his nose as he smiled. “Coming right up, you freak of nature you.”

“Love it when you talk dirty to me, Ade.”

“Adrian, if you please.” He gave an exaggerated curtsey and spun to the back table, prepping Richie’s drink without even having to ask. It was one of Richie’s own creations, something he’d decided on in a hungover stupor one morning, and it was so overloaded with syrups that even a hipster tween wouldn’t touch it. Richie ordered it whenever he was feeling particularly awful and whenever Adrian was working, just to see the kid’s face scrunch up in disgust. It was emotional run off from being friends with Eddie for so long, he reckoned; he got such a hit of endorphins from seeing people look like they wanted to kick his ass.

Huh. Eddie. In the daylight, thinking about him didn’t hurt so much; the pain was a nocturnal creature that came out when there was nothing to distract. And maybe it was because he would see him again. Soon. Then he could see what the dickwad’s problem was.

“I saw your show last night, by the way. Got in halfway through your set.”

Richie stirred. Adrian was talking to him. Focus. “Oh.” He paused. “Did you hate it?”

“What? No!” Adrian spun around to shoot him a scandalised look. “God, no! It was great, different to your old stuff.”

“Good different?”

“It was actually funny.”

“Wow.”

“Hey, you asked!” Adrian laughed.

He was a good kid, Richie reasoned. Coming to the coffee house for so long meant they’d gotten to talking, him and Ade, and he’d found out quite a bit about the bandy-legged little guy. He was quick, reactive, like a whipcrack. He volunteered at the local shelter. He punched a nazi at a rally the previous year. He helped run Pride events for kids coming to terms with their sexualities. He was a regular icon in LA – in the right circles, of course. Plus, he put up with Richie’s ridiculous coffee orders and pity parties. Poor guy deserved a better job than serving hot drinks to wannabe film stars and critics.

Part of Richie envied him. He knew Adrian got his own deal of shit; sometimes he ran his mouth a little too much, pissed off the wrong guy, got a belting for his trouble. It may have been LA but there was still a bunch of homophobes about. He’d come into work with a black eye and a busted lip once, but he just shrugged it off and told Richie he didn’t give a damn if he got whaled on every day. “They do it because they can’t stand how gorgeous I am, honey. They’re just jealous,” he said, tipping him a painful wink, and that was it. No further discussion.

If anything, the outright resistance to his general existence just fuelled the fire in him. He’d started wearing rainbow pins during his shift after that, and practically flung himself over the counter to kiss his boyfriend – Don, Richie thought his name was – whenever he stopped by. Richie watched this 26 year old kid fucking _own it_ with unshakeable awe. Fuck any of those comedy heroes, he wanted to be Adrian Mellon when he grew up.

Adrian finished off his syrupy monstrosity with a flourish and set it down in front of him, beaming. “Enjoy your diabetes,” he said breezily.

“Too kind, dahling.” Richie trilled, adopting a London Socialite voice as he took a sip and felt every single tooth in his mouth beg for mercy. “And thanking you kindly for your thorough assessment of my livelihood.”

To his credit, Adrian actually laughed. “I’m sure my opinion means a whole lot.”

“You kidding? You hold my life in your hands, my dear Adey. You could spit in my coffee if the mood so took you.”

“The power I have is truly unimaginable.” Adrian’s brow creased as he looked Richie over. “You sure you’re okay? Aside from, you know, the obvious.” He gestured to the coffee.

Richie stiffened. “Sure.” A lie. By the look on Adrian’s face, he could tell. Geez, was he that easy to read? Even his fucking barista buddy could see straight through him? Richie cleared his throat. “You better go serve that suburban white mom over there, she’s been burning a hole in your back for a while.”

Adrian followed his gaze and sighed. “Can’t she let us girls have our chat?”

“But Adey, the double decaff latte with mocha sprinkles won’t make itself.”

Adrian gave him a pained look as he moved down the line. Richie laughed after him as another message set his phone off chiming. A row of quick-fire messages came next, one after another like a tiny symphony in his back pocket, and as Adrian returned he commented, “Someone’s popular. New squeeze?”

Richie snorted. “Nope. Been living like a nun, Ade. Picture of abstinence, that’s me.” Adrian’s sceptical glance made him chuckle. “Nah, just old friends, probably. Or my manager, wondering where the hell I got to last night.” Some small, idiotic part of him dared to hope it was someone else returning a message… but he stomped it down pretty hard. _Don’t even go there, Tozier._

“Oh, fun if it’s your buds. You showing them the sights?”

“More like them showing me.” Richie grinned. “I’m visiting them. Going back to Maine, the ol’ roots. We all grew up there.”

“No kidding! Don’s from Maine,” Adrian said brightly. “Quite a change from LA.”

“That was the idea.” Richie let his gaze drift down to his drink, the thought of his birthplace beginning to weigh heavy on him. “Wanted to go someplace totally different.”

“I’ve visited before. It’s a beautiful state. Might wanna steer clear of Don’s hometown, though. Derry, I think it’s called?”

Richie visibly flinched.

Adrian’s enthusiasm wavered. “Oh. You know about Derry, huh?”

Richie tried to stop himself stepping back in time, becoming that scrawny, speccy little loudmouth getting chased from the arcade for being a ‘pervy little homo’. Richie was an easy target back then, too much of a loudmouth and too fucking slow to get away in time. The ‘homo’ thing came later, way later. Henry Bowers, the ringleader of all those bull-headed idiots, seemed to like slapping everyone he picked on with that word – it wasn’t that specific to Richie.

To start with Richie hadn’t even known what the words he was branded with _meant_ exactly, only that they meant something bad. Something that made it okay for him, at eight years old, to get beaten to a pulp when Bowers and his cronies caught him, and for grown-ups to stand back and watch it happen. “Yeah,” he said, the sound of the bullies and their taunts ringing in his ears. “I know Derry.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would, it’s a pretty small town.” Adrian pretended to clean the countertop as he talked. "But I guess that’s why it is the way it is. Set in their ways. Don’s not so bad, he knows how to blend in, but… someone like me steps into Derry’s city limits? It’s open season.” He straightened up, frowning. “God, sorry. Shouldn’t burden you with this shit, you just come here for coffee. I’m sure you’ll have a nice trip.”

Richie was already too far gone. _Burden him with it? Kid, I fuckin’ **lived** it._ The feeling hit him in the ribs like it was the day he left all over again; living in a small town full of straight white guys packing heat was something he had to navigate like a rat in a maze, constantly on the look-out for dead ends or wrong turns. He was lucky he got out when he could. He was lucky he had the Losers.

He was lucky he had Eddie.

“You’ll be fine,” Adrian pressed, erasing the thoughts in his head before they could fully form. “You’re not like me, y’know? You’re white and funny in that… that straight guy way. They’ll leave you alone.”

Richie stared at him blankly. For a split second, he wanted to just come out with it. He wanted to tell him about the long nights, the broken glasses and the way a simple smile from his best friend knitted his self-worth back together again. But he couldn’t. He just… couldn’t.

So instead he choked out a weak, “you betcha,” in one of his voices. “Fuckin’… riot, that’s me.”

He couldn’t do it anymore. Just like that, his coffee was no longer appetising. He drained the mug in a couple of gulps, and left the bewildered Adrian with an apology and a tip for being such a fucking dumbass. The door to the coffee house shut behind him with Bowers’ words ringing in his ears like a playground chant. As he crossed the road, Adrian’s voice cut through with two simple words: _open season, open season._

The multiple syrups curdled in Richie’s stomach.

He wondered how proud Henry fucking Bowers would be if he knew how much of a mark he’d made on him. He’d cut a ‘H’ into Ben so deep that the poor guy carried it with him 27 years later, but he’d used a different sort of knife to cut Richie’s wounds. That didn’t matter; whenever Richie caught the eye of another man on the street or woke up to an empty bed, all he was met with – all he could think of – was the knotted white scar tissue of Bowers’ slurs and shouts. And that would bring on his good old friend the panic attack. Thanks, Bowers. Thanks a fuckin’ bunch.

Richie spent the rest of his bedding’s spin cycle checking his messages and willing his stomach to stop mimicking the machines around him, pulling his jacket close to his face in the classic, ‘fuck off I don’t want company’ look he’d perfected during his time in the city. He ignored the ones from his manager – they were old news anyway – and focused on the others. They came from Bill Denbrough, and Richie couldn’t stop the smile from spreading to his face at the sight of them. His stomach settled, just a little.

Bill was asking him to confirm he was definitely going to the lakehouse (‘do I have a choice’ ‘no Rich’ ‘Bev said I did’ ‘Bev’s nicer than me’) and whether he was coming alone. That question made him pause. Bill knew he didn’t have anyone. Did that mean the rest of them _did_? He fired back a reply and waited.

[To: The Biggest Billiam, Sent: 10:54]  
 _\- is everyone bringing their fuckin sidesqueeze what is this_  
 _\- actually wait no I have someone_  
 _\- does my right hand count as a plus one_

[From: The Biggest Billiam, Sent: 10:59]  
 _\- beep beep Richie_  
 _\- and no just wondered since Patty can’t make it and Stan is sad_  
 _\- Bev and Ben obviously but they’re allowed_  
 _\- and I know you’re allergic to monogamy_

[To: The Biggest Billiam, Sent: 11:01]  
 _\- it’s a medical condition big Bill stop invalidating me_  
 _\- say it 3 times fast and I’ll straight up melt_

Richie looked up from his phone to find that the machine had stopped rattling like it was about to take off, which he took to mean his bedding was done. Hauling it into his arms (since he hadn’t thought it through enough to bring a basket) he made his way up the stairs to his apartment looking like the Michelin man on steroids. Though he could still hear the sneers and slurs from the bullies in his head, they were considerably muffled by the messages Bill had sent him. It was why he needed the Losers, he guessed; they were the cushions pressed tight over his ears.

Actually, no, he thought as he reached his apartment and almost fell through the door, the Losers were more than that. They’d saved his fucking life so many times and they didn’t even know it. Memories of rides on Silver floated across his mind, clinging tight to Bill as he roared out that Lone Ranger catchphrase without a single stutter, and of building a dam in the Barrens with Ben overseeing the whole thing, still bleeding from Bowers’ knife. They came to him gently, brushing across the pain like ointment. Richie let them come willingly as he pulled a suitcase out from his closet, unzipping it and beginning to pile in any clothes that looked remotely clean.

He remembered the mini drug store Eddie used to carry around in those little fanny packs of his, bringing out a plaster or antiseptic or bandages the instant he saw blood. Mike laughing at one of his jokes so hard that chocolate milk came out his nose. Eddie, dropping everything and rushing over to him, asking him what the hell happened and those huge as fuck eyes looking at every injury, every bruise, probing deeper than Richie ever wanted to admit. Dancing in the street after dark with Beverly, pretending the streetlamps were stage lights. Eddie, muttering under his breath that he’d give Bowers a piece of his mind if he went after Richie again, even though he was half his size and convinced he was a haemophiliac. Going out on long walks with Stan and getting bird names wrong just to fuck with him. Eddie, grabbing Richie’s hand and pulling him behind him even though he was also on Henry’s hit list and Richie was a head taller than him.

 _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Jesus **fuck**_ **,** _Tozier, get a hold of yourself._

He paused in packing to look over at his nightstand. Like most of his apartment, it was covered in junk he couldn’t be bothered to move – he didn’t have company often enough to care – but he liked to call it organised chaos, or a self portrait of the highest medium. He slapped a hand onto the top, rooting around in the miscellaneous crap of ticket stubs, notepads and dead pens, until he found what he was looking for. He held it up in the air with a bark of triumph.

To the untrained eye it was, in all intents and purposes, a child’s craft project. That was pretty much what it was, if Richie was honest. Back when he was a kid it was a Ring of Power, something he wore practically every day and thrust it into his friends’ faces with obnoxious sound effects. Now? Now it was just a dark green pipe cleaner, slightly worse for wear since it had moved states, apartments and lives with Richie for the past few decades, bent into a circle with a large orange bead threaded through it. Richie had never been one to be sentimental over shit from Derry, but this? This was different. Lucky.

After a moment’s hesitation, he tucked it carefully into one of the hidden pockets in the suitcase. No one needed to know it was there. He’d know, and that was what mattered.

God, despite it all he was getting excited. The thought of stepping over the state line may have dredged up stuff he’d much rather have forgotten existed, but he was seeing all of them. Every single one. Even Eddie. Especially Eddie. Who was he kidding, he was looking forward to seeing Eddie, even if it did turn into an argument or a fight and Eddie wanted nothing more to do with him. At least he would be able to see him, instead of staying stuck in the limbo of missed calls and voicemails he was currently in. Anything had to be better than that.

When his phone chimed again, he saw it was Bill.

[From: The Biggest Billiam, Sent: 11:20]  
 _\- monogamy monogamy monogamy_

[To: The Biggest Billiam, Sent: 11:24]  
 _\- harsh but fair_  
 _\- and what do u mean Ben and Bev are both coming they have to fight to the death to see who is still allowed to be our friend_  
 _\- there can only be one the other is demoted to ‘The Partner’_

[From: The Biggest Billiam, Sent: 11:30]  
- _we can’t do that we both know who would win_

Richie laughed when, almost instantly, they both wrote ‘Bev’.

Yeah. This trip was going to be okay.

* * *

The week moved quickly – so quickly, in fact, that before Richie knew it he was swapping questionably smelling cab journeys in the shadows of high reaching concrete to dappled forest roads and the roar of a good engine. Renting the most expensive car at Beverly’s suggested rental place had done wonders for his wavering confidence, and as he’d pulled out of the lot and put his foot to the gas, the Ford Mustang began to gallop. He almost shouted ‘High Ho Silver!’ out of the window as he left the lot in the dust; he settled instead for a simple, ‘Heeeeeeell yessssss’ which amply spooked a collection of pigeons. He had a Mustang back in LA, he knew their quirks, and this one was just an upgraded model. Plus it was _black._ Swish. Look who was going up in the world, motherfuckers.

It made him feel stronger, driving through his home state in a thing he never would have dreamed he could have as a kid. Back then, he was frankly astonished he even had a working bike for all the abuse he gave it. But this? This was the Richie Tozier he wanted to be. He was breaking the speed limit on his way to see his best fucking friends in the world, and he was going to spend the next few days drinking, drinking and then probably drinking some more. And maybe talking. Shit, he hoped not _too_ much talking.

It was a couple hours’ drive to the lakehouse lodge Beverly had given him directions for – though he thought ‘lodge’ was probably a modest term, since it was housing all seven of them – but the traffic was practically non-existent and he got there in plenty of time. After pulling off the main road and following another snaking path for a couple of miles, Richie spotted the first sights of the lodge peeking through the trees.

It was a behemoth of a place, far larger than anything Richie had expected, and had the look of a house that was made out of the most basic materials when in reality it was the most up to date, high tech house Maine had ever seen. For a second, a sinking feeling took over him that suggested he was out of his depth. Then again, he remembered, they were all pretty well off; they could afford the best. Camping out illegally in a farmer’s field was a thing of the past now.

If the map on his phone was right, the lake’s edge wasn’t far away either. Contrary to popular belief (and all the taunts made about him looking like he hadn’t taken a bath in a while), Richie liked being near the water. It was one of the things he’d missed; he took trips to Venice beach when he could, but it wasn’t the same. The sea was a whole different creature to a lake, and the one near Derry? That was a monster. He missed it. God, aside from the Losers, it was the only thing he _did_ miss about Derry.

Shaking the thoughts away, he drove down a slight incline from the main path and pulled up next to a couple of cars. He killed the engine, squinting in his rear mirror to look at the place peering down at him from the hill. Well. This was it. He slumped back in the seat for a moment, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for.

_They’re your **friends** for god’s sake, pull it together. You were excited an hour ago, now look at you._

The doubt that had been skirting the fringes of his mind came in full force. Was this such a good idea? Would he fuck it up somehow? He wondered if he’d be able to look Eddie in the eye, since he’d been whining at his dead answerphone for the better half of the year. He had to, was the simple answer. He just fucking had to, he needed to grow the fuck up.

The first step? Getting out of the goddamn car.

He took a deep breath and stepped out, grabbing his bags from the trunk before he started patting himself down with a scowl. God, he wanted a cigarette. Why had he thought it was such a good idea to try quitting? He continued to search fruitlessly, tongue stuck out in concentration, until an excited cry of “RIIIIICHIIIIEEE” came from the direction of the hill. Richie turned to see Beverly Marsh at the top of the hill, looking down at him with undisguised delight.

He grinned, and just like that the doubt was shoved to the side. “Beaverly!” he cried.

God, she was practically bouncing on her heels at the sight of him. Richie wished he got that more often. She always said that seeing all of them together made her feel like a kid again, like by magic she somehow turned back into the wild-eyed, sharp-talking twelve year old Bev of 1984. Richie always made fun of her for it, but as she hurtled down the hill towards him, her hair now bobbed but still bright as fire, he could see it. _There you are,_ he wanted to say. _There’s my Bev._

He ran to her too, wheeling his suitcase along behind him. Somewhere in the middle they collided, Beverly pulling him into a hug so tight he choked. He got her back by picking her up and swinging her around, just to hear her squawk. “My darling Beaverly, my sparrow, my lark! Always a pleasure, my doll!”

“You asshole,” Beverly replied, “let’s never leave it this long again! Missed my Trashmouth!” She swung her legs through the air as he held her, and tried to land a kiss on his cheek which he groaned and wriggled loose from.

“Name the time and place, sugar,” he said, setting her back down. “Knew you’d wanna run away together eventually. It’s all true, being married to a stable, strong and smokin’ hot architect really _was_ a phaze! Oh, how about a spring wedding?”

“God, I take it back, thirty seconds in and you’re annoying.” She squeezed him extra tight and pulled away, beaming. It had taken her a while to learn how to smile again. It was a work in progress for so long, but now? Now, it seemed the practice made perfect. He couldn’t help but smile back. “How you holding up?”

“Weird vocab, but fine,” he said, following her back up the slope. “Managed to cancel that gig I was due for on Saturday, so I can stay longer.”

“Steve let you do it?”

“Steve nearly throttled me actually, but I’m a faster runner than him.”

“It pays well, right? To be your manager?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Miss Marsh, I am a fucking delight.”

“Mrs Marsh,” she corrected, “but seriously, I think it’s very mature of you, doing this. I know how much it’ll mean to Eddie.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Haven’t even spoken to him yet, Bev, let’s not go rolling out the banners just yet. And this isn’t just for Eddie, you know that.”

“Still.” Her hand drifted down to his and squeezed it gently. “Proud of you.”

A familiar rush of affection came over him that only Beverly seemed to tap into. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he mumbled, batting her away. “Proud of you too, loser.”

Beverly’s screeching had brought others onto the steps of the lodge. Richie gave them a loose wave. “Whaddup suckers, your entertainment has arrived. I am here to smoke pot and bang chicks, that right?”

The collective round of abuse he got was music to his ears. Stan, Bill and Mike were looking down at him, shaking their heads and trying to hold in their offended laughter and _fuck_ he was suddenly twelve again. He’d only gone out of state one summer, and despite all the sightseeing and time spent with his folks the thought of coming back had kept him going. He missed those Barrens days, when they stayed out all day playing some make-believe game of Bill’s own invention. He missed the sleepovers, the pancakes in the morning, the freedom without his parents watching over him. When he’d gotten back he’d been pounced on by the whole group, cheers and whoops flying over his head like kites, and Richie knew for sure that he was home.

Huh. Maybe Beverly was right. Maybe there was something in this ‘becoming a kid’ bullshit.

Like back then they didn’t hesitate to pile on him, though this time they were slapping his back and squeezing him as tight as Beverly had. Richie wondered if they were just trying to squeeze love into him, the way they always knew he needed. “Oof, alright, alright,” he spluttered, “no need to kill me. I haven’t even got out the ‘your mom’ jokes yet.”

“And you won’t,” Bill confirmed, “right?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

They let him go, laughing and calling him an idiot, and he just grinned in response. Home. He was home.

“It’s good to see you, man,” Mike said, giving him a playful shove that nearly toppled him over. “Real good to see you.”

Richie executed a theatrical bow in response. “Pleasure, sirrah, an ab-so-lute pleasure,” he trilled.

“You’d think the voices would get better,” Beverly commented, “but they’re just more obnoxious.”

“My most scathing review, Miss Marsh.”

“Mrs.”

“Whatever.”

Despite his best efforts, Bill was very noticeably staying back. He was trying to be subtle, Richie could tell by the way he was avoiding everyone’s eye, but he really was keeping his distance from them all, his smile genuine but slightly watered down. Bill was trying so hard to blend into the woodwork, so Richie did what he did best. He inhaled sharply and crowed, “And what have you got so far stuck up your ass you can’t talk, Big Bill?” just to get everyone looking at him.

Bill seized up, a rabbit in the path of stoats. “N-nothing,” he stammered, then coughed to cover it up. “God, Rich, I’m fine, it’s just – I wasn’t sure if you could, uh, make it.”

“You invited me to something you didn’t think I’d come to?” Richie questioned. He tucked his hands into his pockets and let out a short, huffing laugh. “Way to give a gal mixed signals.”

The group seemed to draw closer to him, frowns patterning their faces. Richie’s smiled dropped. Oh, yeah. He forgot these guys literally knew every Richie-ism imaginable; they definitely knew when he laughed and didn’t mean it. Shit.

Mike spoke before he could. “Come on, Bill. This is Richie. He wouldn’t miss this, right?”

“And here we have Micycle,” Richie said, thrusting a hand at him like an auctioneer describing an elaborate piece. “The voice of wisdom and the one who apparently knows me better than my oldest friend, Stuttering Bill the Brain Donor.” He shrugged loosely. “I’d drop anything to party with you guys in some booshy cabin in the woods style getaway, you know that. Besides, _Billy,_ you didn’t invite me. Bev did.”

“I know.” Bill shot a look of – Jesus, was that _annoyance?_ – at Beverly. She stared innocently back at him, unmoving. “I-it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re here,” Beverly interjected, linking her arm in his. “And we’re happy to have you.”

“Some more than others, clearly,” Richie sniffed.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re so very blessed,” Stan commented wryly.

Richie turned on his heel and smiled. “Aw, Stan! You were so quiet I forgot you were there, c’mere.”

Stan took a step back. “I’d really rather not.”

“Hug me, you dork.”

“I don’t think-”

“HUG ME.”

Richie caught him in his arms before he had chance to wriggle away. To his surprise, Stan’s arms came around him in an actual hug instead of playing possum and they rocked to one side for a moment, boats on an ocean, before they released one another. Stan looked tired; he always did, it was part of the ruffled-neat aesthetic he had going on, but the shadows under his eyes were a touch darker, his smile more drawn. Still, he managed to look as though he had just left a fancy dinner, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a slightly co-ordinated look to his hair. Richie, not for the first time, felt as though he was a mongrel in the presence of pedigrees.

“Speaking of bailing,” he said, stepping away, “I didn’t think _you’d_ be here, dude. Thought you had a research trip to go stare at bird sex.” 

“That’s not _exactly_ what we’re doing, Richie. Jesus. You’ll make me look bad.”

“Sorry, I forgot being a bird nerd is such a chick magnet.”

“It got him Patty,” Beverly pointed out.

“Stop bullying me.” Stan’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, it’s fine that I’m here. Patty headed out ahead of me so we’ve got one of us on the ground. Hopefully our camera traps will give us all the data we need.”

“Still though, shit. You sounded so excited about that trip, you wouldn’t stop going on about that red chested pigeon.”

“It’s a Bleeding Heart Dove, Rich, and you _know_ it’s a Bleeding Heart Dove.” Stan corrected. “A-and it’s fine. Really. I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.”

And there it was again. Those words, spoken in a thoughtfully fond way. Richie frowned. “You’re like, the third person to say something like that, dude. It’s just a meet up, I know you all love me so passionately and deeply that you have to come together to talk about how great I am, but real- ohhh wait.” He thrust a finger in Beverly’s direction. She looked like she was trying to get something across to Bill using only just her eyes, and Bill was just… well. Being shifty as fuck, was what he looked like. “Okay, what the hell is going on here?” he asked, wiggling his finger between the two of them.

“Nothing,” Bill replied, too quick and too loud.

Beverly shot Bill a look of venom now they’d been discovered. “I don’t know, Bill. Are you sure it’s nothing?”

Stan looked at them too, equally confused – until it apparently dawned on him and his face dropped. “Oh my… did you not _tell him_?”

Mike’s smile also faded. “Jesus, guys, really?”

“Tell me what?” Richie looked from one guilty face to the next, waiting for someone that wasn’t him to speak. “Okay, if someone doesn’t tell me right fucking now what is going on I am outta here and I am putting you all on blast in my next material. None of you will ever get laid again. Ever. I’ll make sure.” He paused, looking around at them all. There was someone very obviously missing, the person he’d been both looking forward to seeing again and dreading. “Hey, where’s Eddie and Ben?”

Bill and Beverly looked at one another, and took a deep collective breath.

* * *

“Nope.”

“Richie.”

“Fuck you, Bill.”

“Richie, please-”

“Fuck. You.”

Okay. Here was the plan. He was going to leave, take his car and drive to the nearest airport. He’d charter a flight back to LA, and once he got back he was going to the grimiest dive bar in the city and bleed it fucking dry. Then he would get home, shut out all natural light, and pretend he didn’t have friends. Maybe he’d call Steve and get him to reschedule the gig, or maybe he’d just slip into a fucking coma.

He dragged his suitcase along the ground with less care than before, scarcely noticing when it hit bumps and veered off course. He didn’t care, because he had to get out. He had to. There was no other choice, not to him. Because an old hurt, something buried deep, was pushing back to the surface. But he couldn’t hurt, couldn’t bring himself to accept what that hurt meant – so he was angry. More than that, he was fucking _furious_. Anger was safer than the softness, the ache.

His friends’ pleas still rang in his ears, but he wasn’t turning back. Not this time. Even if Bill, their wise and strong leader, came after him the way he always did when they had a fight. God, Richie could’ve ignored everyone, even Beverly – but he knew he couldn’t ignore Bill, and that made him even madder.

“Richie!” And there was Bill again, his voice cutting through Richie’s thoughts like a headache. “Richie, stop! If you would just let me talk-”

“Okay, fine!” Richie spun on his heel and stopped dead, almost knocking Bill flying in the process, “Let’s talk. Shall we talk about the weather, or Stan’s field project, or, hmm, here’s a fucking thought…” He gave him a shove backwards, “when you were going to tell me this is a fucking bachelor party, because Eddie’s getting _married_ in a month’s time?!”

And there it was. The kicker. Eddie Kaspbrak was getting married. The thought felt alien in Richie’s mind, cold and unfamiliar, and the sickening pain inside him made him think that his very body was rejecting the news, like a donated body part.

Bill was still coming, his hands out to him as though he was approaching a cornered animal. “Richie, you need to calm down…”

“Oh, I _need_ to, do I?!” Richie turned back and strode away to his car, popping the trunk as he reached it. He let out a harsh bark of a laugh that made Bill wince. “I don’t _need_ to do anything! Just because we’ve been friends this long, Bill, does not mean you get to leave me in the dark like this!”

“Look, I get you’re upset-”

“Understatement of the fucking century!” Richie shouted back at him, throwing his case in the trunk and slamming it down with such violence the whole car rocked unhappily. “You don’t know shit, asshole! Just get the hell away from me.”

“Richie.” Bill leant across the Mustang’s roof, his hands resting there. “I didn’t tell you because I knew that if I did, you wouldn’t come.”

“Wow, something you got right for once,” Richie spat, fishing in his pockets for his keys. “Congratulations.”

“But that would have been wrong, because we wanted you here.” He paused. “Eddie wants you here.”

“If Eddie wanted me here, why didn’t he tell me himself?” Richie was still looking for his keys, his anger and panic clouding his search. “Fuck’s sake, where are they?”

“Looking for these?”

Richie looked up to see the car keys swinging merrily from Bill’s finger. His mouth dropped open. “How did you-?”

“They fell out of your back pocket.” Bill closed his fist over the keys, and Richie sensed something else close too.

“Give me my keys, Bill,” he said, his voice low and bordering on dangerous.

Bill ignored him. “Rich, I know Eddie means a lot to you.”

Horror seeped through him. “Oh no, we are not doing this here, Denbrough. No fucking way.”

“You need to be here for him. I don’t… there’s a reason I organised this. He needs us, and Beverly made me see that he also needs you.”

“Stop it.”

“You know I’m right.” Bill leant over the roof of the car, staring at Richie with a gaze strong enough to pierce the armour. “You can’t be selfish, not now.”

“Wh-”

“I have eyes, Rich. And we promised we’d look out for each other. Since we were kids, remember?”

Richie was almost certain that he hadn’t known true anger until that very moment. “Bill. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that shit, and I’m gonna give you five seconds to hand over my keys.”

Bill clearly had no intention of giving him anything – even the dignity of storming off in a teenage huff. Richie had known him long enough to know what stubbornness looked like on him, and by the way Bill had locked his jaw he knew it just wasn’t going to happen. Fine. Looked like it was going to be the hard road.

“Look, I didn’t think it was a good idea, you coming,” Bill said. Richie’s keys winked at him from their place in Bills fist. “But, Rich, think about it. He listens to me, sure, but he trusts y- hey, no!”

Richie dived around one side of the car, but Bill was too fast for him.

“Rich, for god’s sake-”

“I said gimme the keys,” he growled, lunging again.

“No,” Bill said, calmer than he looked as he bolted to the other side of the car. “No, I won’t because you need to stay!”

“The hell I do.” He tried again, but Bill danced out of the way just in time. “Damn your stupid Mr-Tumnus-agile-bullshit legs, c’mere!”

“No!”

“Billiam!”

“No!”

“BILL I SWEAR TO FUCK-”

He chased him. With an unmanly squeak, Bill took off. They ran around and around the Mustang like schoolchildren, changing directions every now and again to try to shake each other off. Every time Richie got close, Bill would _just_ manage to get away, which just meant Richie’s swearing doubled in intensity and volume. Bill kept talking, shouting explanations, but Richie didn’t want to hear them. He didn’t want to hear anything. All he wanted were those fucking keys.

“Wait wait wait stop.” Bill thrust out a hand, panting.

Richie skidded to a halt and stared furiously at him, his own chest heaving. “What? Give… give up?” he wheezed, almost bent double as he sucked in air.

“We… are too old… for this shit…” Bill put a hand on the Mustang’s bonnet, still catching his breath. “Listen. For once. Whatever is going on… between you and Eddie… you have to let it go.” Richie didn’t answer – he was too busy trying to blink away the spots in his vision. Bill took it as a reason to carry on. “Eddie, he… he needs this, okay? He needs to see you. You… you help him like we don’t. And we all need to be here because… he needs… to know… what he’s doing…”

“He’s getting married, Bill,” Richie spat. Nope. Still didn’t feel right. This time, it was a punch in the gut. How many more times was he going to be wounded by a simple fucking word?

“And we need to be there for him,” Bill repeated, slower. “I know I sound like a broken record, Richie, but it’s true. You, most of all.”

Richie straightened up, his lungs still begging for mercy. “You know what, sure. I’ll go see him, give him my blessings, have a jolly old time talking about his wonderful fiancée. Sounds delightful.” Everything in him screamed the opposite. “That’s fine though, because we’ll see each other before then. We’ll have to get busy planning another big day.”

Bill paused. “What big day?”

“Your fucking funeral.” And with that, Richie took a running jump and slid over the bonnet of the Mustang.

This time, Bill wasn’t ready for him; they collided with a triumphant shout of, “Gotcha, you little shit!” from Richie and a girlish shriek from Bill.

“Richie, get _off_ me!”

“Keys now, you turd!”

“No, Jesus, did you listen to anything I just – DON’T YOU DARE TICKLE ME I SWEAR TO GOD.”

“I WILL TICKLE YOU UNTIL YOU PISS YOURSELF BILLIAM, NOW GIMME THOSE KEYS.”

Richie had Bill in a headlock and was tickling him mercilessly with his free hand in his bid to find the flash of silver he craved so much, when another voice cut across the once serene clearing.

“Okay, what the hell is going on? This place is meant to be qui- Richie?”

Richie froze, Bill’s head still trapped in his armpit. Bill was making noises that were a mix of laughing, crying and wheezing, and Richie was so close to grabbing the keys, held out at an arms’ length by Bill, but – everything stopped for him at that moment.

Because, stood at the bottom of the path and staring straight at them with large, wonderful eyes, was.

Well.

Eddie.

Richie blinked. _Oh, fuck me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should also be named: Richie Tozier plans Bill Denbrough's Funeral


	4. Eddie Kaspbrak has his silence ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's pov, little bit of overlap here with the previous Richie chapter for the development. And more Losers!   
> Bit of NSFW in here too so watch out (then again who's really working right now lol) 
> 
> As usual you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and please kudos & comment if you enjoy this and want to see it continue, I crave that sweet validation

Eddie really had been looking forward to relaxing.

He made the trip down to Maine a day early; he made the decision late at night, after messaging Bill for the better half of the evening. If Myra found out, he would just tell her he’d gotten the dates wrong and found a hotel. If he played it right, she would probably just roll her eyes and smack him on the arm and say he had such a slippery mind. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he played it _wrong._

He told Bill the wrong date too, and Bev and Ben and Mike and Stan. The honest reason was that he wanted some time to himself. He wanted some silence that wasn’t strained – he wanted it on his own terms, for a change. And relaxing? Well, he knew there was no such thing as ‘relaxing’ when it came to his friends, and that was okay by him – so long as he got one blessed day.

The moment he pulled into the space and looked back at the hill the lakehouse sat on, the slightly rickety steps leading up to the front door and the windows gazing out on the forest and lake beyond, he felt the tension in his shoulders lessen. When he stepped through that door and the scent of pine hit his nose, he even let a smile fall over him. This wasn’t a house he had to slink around like a muzzled dog, and he planned to make the most of it. He ran his hands along the walls, he went into every room and sat on every bed, and he opened every single cupboard in the kitchen. There was a breakfast bar too, very much like one he’d wanted for years and Myra always said they didn’t need. “It’ll eat into the living room, Eddiekins,” she’d simpered.

“I thought it would be good for when we have friends over.”

“Well, there’s only Jan and Macy,” Myra replied, waving his words away, “and they won’t sit on stools.”

Jan and Macy were Myra’s friends. Eddie didn’t bother to mention it. Still, he had to admit that when Bill had sent over some options for him to choose from, the breakfast bar in this place had sold it to him.

Staying on his own was nice, Eddie realised. He’d done it for so long after his mother died that he’d felt as though he was missing out on something vital, something everyone else had and he lacked. It turned out that his own company was pretty okay when it wasn’t beating him over the head with half-remembered dreams.

Bill certainly knew how to pick well; he’d said that he hired out a place in this area when he first started writing. “It’s got something about it,” he’d said over the phone one morning, under Myra’s scorching glare. Eddie had fervently ignored her. “Forests are the pathway to the soul, some people say. They’re very primal. Natural. They’re good for thinking. And the lake is just… soothing. Somehow.”

Eddie wasn’t sure what he’d meant at the time: what sort of mid-life crisis bullshit meant that trees made you think? But after a day or two, he got it. He wasn’t sure why. He just did.

The lakehouse had the echoes of many fleeting lives bouncing along its walls, and Eddie could pick out a few flaws in the woodwork; a knock here, a kick there. Still, it felt lived in and welcoming but clean, unlike so many of the hotels he’d had the misfortune to stay in. This would be home for the next few days – and he could already feel how much he would hate leaving.

He spent his night out on the porch (there was a porch! A wooden one!) with a cup of mint tea (no caffeine or sugar after 6pm), just watching the trees sway to the lure of the wind’s song and the faint gleam of the lake in the distance. Myra always said how much of an old soul he was, sitting quiet the way he did, but Eddie didn’t agree with that. It was just nice to stop for once; back home he was always rushing around, filing reports, shouting at his colleagues, driving around the city like he was leaving the scene of a crime, and this place? It was the exact opposite. It made him still.

He fell asleep out there, curled up in a chair like a cat until the chill woke him in the middle of the night. He started up, an apology already swimming to his mouth, but he quickly realised there was no one to chide him for staying out there and potentially catching his death. He sighed, the relief and guilt crashing together around him, and went inside.

He went to bed, and he dreamed. This time, he didn’t hide his face in the pillow or force himself awake. Face the fear, right? He let it take over, possess him like a ghost as he lay there, breathing as loud as he goddamn liked. A body, crowding him up against a wall and pinning him there. Hands, warm and slightly roughened with work, sliding under his bedshirt, thumbs pressing tender circles into his hip bones. Lips, hot against his neck, his chest, his stomach…

_“Eddie”,_ the voice sighed.

He called out The Name. He knew he did. He did it a few times, and loudly too, but he didn’t care. He was greedy, begging his dream for more, milking it for every smile and touch and promise he would only get in his subconscious and not in real life, never in real life but so close, close, fuck, _close…_

He came with a whimper, his body spasming as he stroked himself through it; fast, then slow, then nothing. He almost cried afterwards. His body ached, burned from the memory of a scene he could never admit to. Even if he couldn’t admit to it, his body wanted it. It cried out for it. He tightened his grip on his bedsheets and stifled a groan. It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fucking fair at all. How could this be so easy, so much like fire and ice and everything in between, when he couldn’t do anything like this for Myra? Her face came to mind, pinched and disappointed and so, so disgusted.

“ _Oh Eddie, if only they all knew…”_

_“Oh, Eddie, your sickness is back. It’s getting worse, getting into your blood, poisoning you.”_

_“Oh, Eddie, what are we going to do with you?”_

Eddie ran for the bathroom in an instant, and as he sat near the toilet bowl with the remnants of his dinner inside it and his stomach pulsing nastily he thought back to his old phone. He’d brought it with him, in case Myra happened to find it when he was gone. He hadn’t ever finished listening to that last voicemail – but no. He wasn’t going to fucking do that, not after he’d just gotten off to the mere memory of…

Right.

Time to sort that out first.

Taking a shower in the early hours of the morning had become something of a routine for Eddie even though he despised it, but his skin was prickling in that unpleasant way that only hot water could stave off. He felt like a guilty teenager, washing off the sweat and shame before his mother saw. There was no one to see, no one to judge, but he still felt a little devil on his shoulder, poking him rudely and telling him he wasn’t clean yet, he had to scrub harder, had do a lot harder than _that_.

Still, at least Richie wasn’t coming, he thought as he stepped out of the shower pink and stinging a while later. He’d asked Bill not to invite him, said it was a long story but he didn’t think it would be right for him to come. It wasn’t exactly a lie; Myra may have asked him not to, but he also didn’t know how the fuck he was meant to look Richie in the goddamned eye. He wanted to see him, wanted it more than anything – but that meant it was best he stayed away. If Richie was there it would be hard to talk about the Big Decision he’d made. Richie would see right through him, the way he’d done since they were snotty little kids. Eddie couldn’t afford the therapy he would need if Richie managed to see _all_ the way through, either.

* * *

The peace was disturbed, if only a little, when Bill arrived the next day. He came with little ceremony, a small hold-all that Eddie could only dream of bringing with him, and a smile that was both genuine and forced at the same time. Eddie tried to pat him on the shoulder but Bill went in for a hug, drawing him in despite his stiff-limbed protests.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, all warm and reassuring the way Bill had always been, and Eddie loosened up enough to hug him back. “I heard that Bev and Ben are on their way, they’ve just stopped for gas a few hours out. Mikey’s coming along after his shift finishes, says he can knock off early. Stan… who knows about Stan, the guy’s either on his own watch or he’s cracked time travel.”

“That’s – that’s great,” Eddie said. He meant it. The old feeling was coming back, one that sparked excitement in him at seeing them all together again. “Really.”

He was also nervous as hell. He knew Bill noticed by the way his smile slowly fell off his face. As Eddie broke away from the hug and beckoned him into the lakehouse, his stomach clenched uncomfortably.

_What if they knew what if they all knew what if they find out what if they hear you what if they find out you’re a liar that you’re wrong disgusting ill **diseased** …_

Eddie did what he always did whenever his mind veered into dangerous territory. He changed the subject. “This place,” he said, waving a hand at the inside of the house, “it’s great, Bill. I love it.”

“I love it too.” Bill slung his hold-all over his shoulder again and strolled right in, toeing off his shoes like he belonged there. “The place I stayed in when I was writing was near here. I tend to stick around this area when I’m visiting Mike or the folks. I can’t… well.” He paused, frowning. “You know.”

Eddie nodded. He knew. This was technically Derry; it said so on any map you could find, plus the town was barely an hour’s bike ride away, but it was also _out_ of Derry too. It was far enough out. Any closer and Eddie just knew his asthma would kick in again, his lungs shrivelling up like plastic bags. He also knew Bill’s stutter would come back too. He’d seen it happen once.

Psychosomatic, his therapist called it. Eddie called it a warning, their bodies telling them not to go back, not again. There was nothing wrong with Derry exactly; he’d been bullied, sure, but everyone had. There was just a feel to the place, something that made you want to get out and stay out, like… like you were trespassing on condemned land. Like you’d escaped, and you better keep it that way.

Funny, he thought as Bill moved to the kitchen and made himself at home, escaping Derry was meant to be freeing. He didn’t feel that free.

“Wow, Eddie, you got this pretty stocked,” Bill commented, bringing Eddie out of his Derry-infused daze. “You’ve got enough here for months.”

Eddie chewed his lip, suddenly feeling awkward. “I, uh, well, wasn’t sure what anyone would want to eat, so I brought-”

“Everything,” Bill finished. He was grinning. “Amazing. Ben eats like a horse.” He opened the fridge and squinted into it, pulling out a small tub of ointment. “You got meds in here?”

“Oh, y-yeah.” Eddie shrugged. “Just that one. It’s nothing to worry about, just a precaution in case I… I dunno, get bitten by a snake or something.”

Bill raised both brows. “Bitten. By a snake.”

Eddie flushed. “It could happen.” He didn’t include that Myra had told him she wouldn’t let him leave the house unless he packed the ointment. It was said as a joke, but there’d been an edge behind it that made Eddie shove it into his bag anyway. It was left over from a holiday they’d taken to Alaska (the last holiday they’d ever taken, since it was far too cold for Eddie’s liking) where there were absolutely no snakes whatsoever. He knew there were barely any snakes in Maine, he told Myra as much, but she was the expert. He’d told himself he’d throw the ointment out the moment he could, but there it was. In the fridge.

“Right.” Bill looked back at the offending tub and very slowly slid it to the very back of the fridge shelf. Eddie pretended not to notice, but the sight of it disappearing into the depths made him smile. “So,” Bill said, smiling too as he turned back, “Any ideas of what you want to do here? It’s your break, man. We’ll do anything.”

Eddie shrugged. “I’m – not really sure. I didn’t really think this far ahead.” He laughed weakly. “God, I dunno Bill. Is that mad?”

“No, it’s not mad.” Bill smiled. “Been a while, huh?”

Eddie’s smile vanished, a spike of fear skewering through his good mood. “Been a while since what?”

Bill opened his mouth, but quickly closed it again. “Nothing.”

But Eddie knew what was coming. He could see it in the way Bill’s mouth twisted up, how his eyes darted to the floor and then back at him. It meant he was almost ready for it when Bill said, delicate and careful, “So. Myra let you out of the house without her, huh?”

Eddie bridled his anger in time; that was his first wave of defence, usually, so he chose to fall back on mild frustration. “Come _on_ , Big Bill,” he groaned, “not this.”

“Hey, hey, hey! I didn’t say anything!” Bill said, putting out placating hands. “I just – well, all of this is a bit sudden.”

“Bill…”

“I know, I know, I said all this on the phone and you told me to fuck off. I know. I’m sorry. I just want to hear it from you.”

“I told you. On the phone. To fuck off about it.”

“Eddie.”

“Look, I love her, okay?” Eddie waved him away and folded himself into the nearest couch, washing a hand over his face. “Maybe I want to settle down. Maybe I want the white picket fence, the nice house, the dog, the kids…”

“You hate kids,” Bill pointed out. He wasn’t even looking; he was too busy picking out an apple from the fruit bowl Eddie had filled the day before.

Eddie gawped at him. “I d- how da- I do _not_ hate kids!” he spluttered.

“No, no, you definitely said you did.” Bill took a bite out of a particularly red apple and followed Eddie to the couches, dropping down into the one opposite him. “I remember.”

“I never said that-”

“Okay, maybe in not so many words,” Bill conceded, “but you did say that you would rather lick a New York pavement than bring a child into this world. I got the picture.”

Eddie flushed. “That was ages ago.”

“That was last month, Eddie.”

“Oh, ah, look, sh-shut the fuck up,” he spluttered. “Kids or no, is it so weird to think I might want something stable? After all that shit I put up with when we were younger? And I love Myra, Bill. I do.” He sighed. “Shit, I thought you could be happy for me.”

“I am! I am, Eddie, honest,” Bill said. “I just want to make sure _you_ are.” He took another bite and Eddie resisted the urge to protect the coffee table between them from the juice that landed there. “So,” he waved the apple in his direction, “are you?”

“What?”

“Happy?”

“Oh.” Eddie paused. “Well. Yeah. Of course I am. The woman loves me, what’s not to be happy about?”

Bill seemed to chew over his answer along with his mouthful of apple. Eddie knew he didn’t believe him. Well, to hell with Bill Denbrough and what he thought. It had mattered to him back when they were kids, when Bill was their ringleader, their king, their _god._ Now they were just two guys fast approaching middle age, and that was all there was to it. Bill had no power over him, not now. He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions, his own dumb mistakes… and the marriage? Not one of them, buddy. No sir. He could just leave that alone.

_Who was he kidding,_ Eddie thought bleakly. _I care what he thinks._

“Anyway, can we drop it now?” he asked. “Please?”

Bill looked as though he wanted to do the exact opposite, but the stubbornness melted under Eddie’s fierce look. “Fine, but the others will want to talk about it too, you know. That’s why we’re here. It’s a bachelor party.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, don’t call it that, I’m not marrying my high school sweetheart.” He sighed. “But you’re right. I’m already bracing myself.”

Bill raised both brows in an expression so serious it made Eddie frown. “You know we’re doing it because we care, right?”

Eddie clenched his jaw. All the bravado fell away until a short, wheezy kid took his place, staring at the kids he scarcely dared to call friends in case it was some kind of joke. “I know,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I’ll listen to a word of whatever you losers say. I’ll marry whoever I want.”

Bill nodded. “That’s the spirit. So long as we’re invited to the wedding.”

“Yes!” Eddie said, loud enough to make Bill jump. _Shit._ “God, of course you are. Who do you think I am?”

Myra hadn’t been keen on the idea. “But Eddie,” she’d wheedled, “you never see them, they’re not your _real_ friends, surely? Not like the ones you see every day, Neil and Dylan from the office. They’re lovely, and they’d mix so well with my friends.”

Little did she know that Eddie fucking despised Neil and Dylan and wished minor accidents on them on a daily basis. Eddie wanted his friends there. It was important to him. In the end, they’d come to a compromise that left Myra happy and Eddie decidedly _not._ But she had said that, sometimes, the right decisions weren’t always the nicest ones. Perhaps she was right on that.

“Of course you’re coming to the wedding,” he repeated, hoping they would gain strength the more he said it. “I want you all _in_ the wedding, if I can help it.”

Bill snorted. “Well, we all know who’ll be best man.”

“Oh, do you now? That’s cocky of you.”

“Not _me_ ,” Bill grinned at him. “Obviously Richie.” 

Eddie’s stomach gave a particularly savage twist. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, uh, he’s already been Bev’s thingy so, uh,” he began, but Bill seemed to know what he was getting at.

He narrowed his eyes and leant forward in his seat. “You mean you’re gonna let _Richie Tozier_ sit quietly in your wedding whilst someone else gets to tell all the shitty jokes about you? Do you want to kill him?” Eddie’s silence made Bill’s smile fade as the cogs in his brain began to turn. He stared wide-eyed at him. “Eddie… he is… he is _coming,_ right?”

Eddie kept quiet. Ah, yes. The Compromise. It made sense, Myra kept telling him. He couldn’t be mad at her for asking for such a simple little thing. And he wasn’t mad, not really. If it was the other way around, if Myra was the one dreaming about someone _in that way_ he wouldn’t be particularly chipper having him in the front pew of the church. It was sensible. It was the right thing to do. He agreed with her on that. So why did it hurt so much?

He cleared his throat again and made sure to avoid Bill’s incredulous gaze. “I didn’t think it would really be his thing.”

“You’re joking? Tell me you’re joking.”

Bill’s apple lay abandoned on the coffee table now, and Eddie watched it turning brown and soft. Bit by bit. It would attract flies. He would have to clean the table. “I figured he’d be busy,” he said, offering out the second excuse with a weak shrug. “It’s quite last minute, and he’s always got sets and tours lined up. He doesn’t have time.”

“Eddie, it’s _you_ ,” Bill pressed. “He’d make time for you.”

Eddie clenched his fists against the fabric of the couch and willed himself not to react. Because Bill was right; Richie _would_ make time, he knew he would. He’d come running if Eddie called him, he always had, and wasn’t that the cruellest thing in the fucking world? Wasn’t that the problem?

He clasped his hands together to hide the fists and stop them from trembling. He had the grace to look as wretched as he felt. “I guess I didn’t think he would.”

“Jesus.” Bill slumped back in the couch, running a hand through his greying hair. “What the hell happened, man? Really? You didn’t want him here, and now you don’t want him at your own wedding?”

Eddie continued to stare at the apple, not really seeing it. What the hell could he say? He settled for a short shrug. “Like you said,” he muttered, “It’s my choice. I can do what I want. I haven’t asked him, and I won’t. It’s what-” _Myra, it’s what Myra wants, she doesn’t want him there, doesn’t like him, never has, doesn’t like **you** _“- we both want.”

“Really? Come on, Eddie, that’s not fair.” Bill’s voice got stronger, grew teeth. “You can’t make Richie’s decision for him.”

“Last time I checked, _Bill,_ it was my fucking life,” Eddie said. It wasn’t quite a snap but it was still sharp enough to cut. He got up from the couch, the familiar anger coming back to him. “You know, contrary to popular belief, my life doesn’t revolve around Richie Tozier.”

“Funny,” Bill said, his voice irritatingly calm. “It used to.”

Eddie stared furiously at him, a picture of calm in a room that Eddie imagined roiling and churning like waves on a choppy ocean. The thought came to him, stupid and childish, that Bill wasn’t any fun to argue with. He didn’t make snide comments back or make a dumb joke to turn the mood over onto its belly. He just sat there and took the anger and just let it dissipate around him, like all Eddie was doing was throwing paper balls at him. The anger began to fade, replaced instead with that all too familiar feeling of awkward shame.

Bill raised a brow at him, unconcerned by the brand of bullshit he was more than used to by now, and then he stood up too. Eddie took a step back, faltering in his half-angry half-ashamed state. For a moment – one horrifying moment – he thought Bill had him figured out. But then Bill put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, a small sigh coming out of him. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re right. I forget sometimes we’re not all just one hivemind like we used to be. This is your show, buddy, and I don’t want you mad at me. You’re one of my best friends, got it?”

Eddie wanted to hug him. Instead, he simply nodded jerkily like a marionette and said, “Y-yeah. I know. Uh, thanks.”

Bill gave his shoulder a tentative pat. “Sure, Eddie.”

Eddie nodded again. “And, uh, Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not mad.”

Bill smiled. “I know, man. I know.”

And that was that. Eddie crossed the room to the kitchen to make a coffee, and noticed the way Bill’s smile dropped too quickly, how he fell back into the couch and let out a long, drawn-out sigh – but it was probably nothing.

* * *

When the others arrived, it got easier. It was only one hour of sharing a space he’d made awkward with Bill, watching him tap messages furiously into his phone and getting more and more irate about whatever he was getting back. Eddie guessed it was something to do with his editor; Bill had just finished a draft, and there were always rewrites. Bill had once flown across the country to hang out with him just to get his agent off his back.

Beverly and Ben came first, Beverly arriving like a whirlwind with Ben trudging behind, hands in his pockets and smiling. She knew better than to just fling herself right at Eddie, which he was thankful for, but he did get caught up in a hug that nearly choked him. “Eddie my love,” she crooned, so tender it nearly broke him. Those words didn’t belong to her, and she knew that. They belonged in someone else’s mouth, and they were never meant to sound as gentle and affectionate as they did coming out of hers. Eddie’s chest ached, but he quashed the feeling with a sturdy boot. She pulled away beaming, and Eddie felt a surge of affection for her that very nearly bubbled over. “It’s so good to see you! We brought Coors!”

Eddie groaned. “Oh god, _please_ not Coors,” he complained as Beverly cheered and danced into the living space, towing Ben along in her wake. “What happened to wine, whiskey? Class?”

“Stowed away in my case, I got you covered,” Ben winked as he let himself be pulled over to Bill, where Beverly wrapped her arms around him and squeezed like an anaconda. She whispered something in Bill’s ear and he went rigid, but Eddie didn’t pay that any attention. Beverly was _always_ messing with Bill to some degree.

It didn’t take long for Mike to arrive, closely followed by a very hassled looking Stan. Eddie knew he had no chance of escape when Mike’s arms came around him; for a librarian, the man was built like a truck.

As Mike pulled him in, he did the one thing Eddie hadn’t expected; he said, “Congratulations, man,” in a voice so warm and so soft that it drove a pike through Eddie’s chest. He wanted to pull away, wanted to get away from them all and hide away in the room he’d picked out for himself, but he knew he couldn’t. Yes, Eddie, congratulations on making a decision you apparently feel ill about. Congratulations on your weird, secondhand guilt. Eddie just waited for it to be over, and when it was and Mike released him he just put on a paper thin smile and said, “thanks,” like a normal person.

To his relief, Stan opted for a loose handshake which he generously accepted. “So, I guess I’ll be welcoming you to the marriage club,” he joked. “Well done.”

Eddie snorted. “What, for finding someone who’d put up with me?”

Stan didn’t bat an eyelid. “What do you mean? You’re a catch. Who wouldn’t want to marry the human equivalent of a chihuahua with a stick up its ass?”

Eddie smirked. “Hey, fuck you bird man.”

“Hey, this bird man is playing hookie on the Philippines trip of a lifetime for this, so don’t push your luck or I’ll be back on that plane.” Stan grinned. “She must be quite something.”

Eddie nodded. “She’s special.”

“Wow, some genuine sincerity? I might vomit.”

Eddie flipped him off amid the other Losers’ laughter. “Of course she’s special, Stan!” Before Eddie had time to slip away, Mike caught him in a one-armed hug that knocked the protest out of him. “Can’t wait to find out about the lucky lady who got you settling down.”

Oh no. This was what Eddie was afraid of. “There’s not much to tell, really. Anyway, you’ve met her,” he pointed out. Mike was one of the lucky few who had. “At the airport?”

He hated bringing it up, but Myra had been waiting with a massive sign screaming EDWARD KASPBRAK in wonky, giant letters the day he’d just so happened to take the same plane back from Bangor to New York as Mike, who was in the city for a book convention. Myra had knocked over two cab drivers and a pensioner to get to the front of the line in case Eddie ‘missed her’, and even then she’d been shouting his name the moment he walked through departures. Mike had found it funny and maybe a little endearing at the time, but Eddie had been quietly mortified.

“It was brief,” Mike summarised, and Eddie was grateful for that. “And I need every gory detail, dude. You know me, I’m thorough.”

Eddie blanched at the very thought.

Unfortunately, though, that seemed to be the topic on everyone’s mind, and as they steered him to the couches he chanced a look over at Bill who simply threw his hands up in the air in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. _Okay. Great. This was his life now._

It wasn’t so bad; Eddie fielded a lot of the questions valiantly (“She’s a nurse”, “we met through friends”, “we’ve got a place”, “no she’s not pregnant”) and with as little resistance as he could muster. He had to give them all some credit, they were interested. Ben and Bill, to their credit, did try to steer the conversation off anything related to Myra, but it was like trying to turn a boat in white water – at least, Eddie assumed it was. He’d never been – obviously.

He was beginning to settle, to get used to the Myra comments bouncing off him like rain, when Beverly stood up halfway through a story of Mike’s to go to the window. Eddie watched her out of the corner of his eye, still half listening to Mike’s update on their hometown. Beverly then cleared her throat, and Mike stopped talking immediately. “I think I can hear the lake from here,” she said faintly.

Eddie frowned. “Uh, if you have good hearing and you’re outside, maybe. You can’t hear shit in here with all of us inside.”

But it was like a light had been turned on; like moths, everyone around him scattered. Stan and Mike bolted to the back porch, flinging the doors open and rushing outside. Beverly grabbed Bill’s arm and yanked him out of his seat, muttering something along the lines of it being, “his fucking fault”, causing Bill to splutter and protest angrily.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Eddie asked, the eye of the very chaotic storm. “What the actual fuck. Guys. What.”

Ben sighed, clapping his hands to his thighs as he stood up. “I think that’s our cue to go. Come on, show me around a little. I didn’t have much chance earlier.”

“Oh no, I’m not falling for that.” A thought, small and panicked, occurred to Eddie in that moment. He looked around at them all, horror flooding through him. “This isn’t some sort of surprise, is it?” he asked.

Beverly jerked her head up from where she was trying to wrestle Bill to the front door. “What, nooooo. No, definitely not.”

“Because you know,” Eddie said, his voice faltering a little, “that I don’t like surprises.”

“We know,” Ben interjected. “You locked yourself in the bathroom when we held that surprise 30th party, and it wasn’t even for you.”

“Yeah, Stan was really confused when you weren’t there,” Bill added as he narrowly avoided a cuff around the head from Beverly.

“Exactly.” Eddie stood up himself, looking at each innocently nervous face in turn. “But, seriously, are you planning something? Because if you are, and there’s some… some _stripper_ or something coming up the drive, pay her and tell her to get lost.” Before anyone could say anything, he pointed down the hall with a glower he hoped was threatening enough. “I’m going to get my inhaler. You better not have anyone else here when I get back.”

“Eddie-” Beverly began, but Eddie was already down the hall, his skin too hot and his palms sweaty. His mind, as always, began to race. God, fuck them if it was a stripper, fuck fuck fuck. Having an adverse reaction to one woman was bad enough – he didn’t need to have his failed heterosexuality wiggling its hips in front of him and demanding he stuff dollar bills in its thong.

He was overreacting, he thought as he reached his room and threw open the door. His friends knew him better than that, he knew they did, but what else would happen at a bachelor party? He didn’t know the etiquette well enough. All he had to go by was the handful of parties he’d been invited to at work and Ben’s before he married Beverly. Ben’s definitely didn’t count; he spent the whole time in an 80s themed bar crying about how he was the luckiest guy in the world whilst they took it in turns to feed him nachos. The work parties had bar crawls, strip clubs, buying the groom a lap dance. God, if there was a stripper Eddie just might cry, and he didn’t want a stripper to see him fucking cry…

“Uh, Eddie?”

He spun around to see Ben looming in on him in the doorway, his arms crossed loose against his chest. He nearly blocked out the light from the hall beyond, stood there like a bouncer, and if he wasn’t staring at him like a nervous dog, Eddie might have been intimidated. Just a little.

“If you’ve come to stall, there’s no need,” he said tightly, turning back to his bag and lifting it onto the bed. “I’m not leaving this room until they stop trying to surprise me.”

“You know it’s nothing bad, right?” Ben asked.

Eddie sniffed. “Define bad.”

“As in, the opposite of good.”

“Ah. Thanks, that clears it up.”

“Besides, that’s not why I came.” Eddie looked at Ben over his shoulder, raising a sceptical eyebrow, and Ben grinned sheepishly. “Come on, it’s not!”

“Mmph.”

“So, uh…” Ben scratched the back of his neck. “I was surprised you chose to come back to Maine. Of all the places you could pick.”

God, this was the worst form of stalling in the world. Ben wasn’t good at this. But Eddie let himself humour him. “Maine’s a big state,” he answered, unzipping his bag and rifling through the contents. He already had an inhaler, he had it in the bathroom – but he’d needed some sort of excuse. Besides, he did have two spares. What Ben didn’t know couldn’t hurt. “Haven’t been back here for a while. I… it seems weird, but it seems like we _should_ be back here.”

“Well, sure, but this is close to Derry.” Eddie stiffened at that. “I mean, hell, we came out to this lake when we were kids. My ma drove us out here for a camp trip, you remember?” Ben paused, thinking. “Wait, is that why you came out here, the nostalgia?”

Eddie sighed and straightened up. “I guess? I just wanted someplace that wasn’t New York.” A place I loved, he wanted to say. A place that made me happy, once. A place that… that would make him forget about what he had waiting for him…

He was brought out of his thoughts by Beverly screeching something from the front door. Eddie only got the first part – “RI” – before Ben drowned it out with a bellowing noise that reminded Eddie of a dying Wookie. “GOD, BEV! I love her but she’s so loud!” Ben roared as Eddie stared, dumbstruck, at him. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being loud, I love everything about her, I mean don’t take it like that it’s not sexual I don’t kiss and tell but she really-”

“Ben!” Eddie shouted, finally derailing Ben’s runaway train of thought. “Jesus, you spoke more just then than you did the whole summer we met, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

Ben stopped talking, instead snapping his head to the door, clearly listening. Then his eyes widened and with a stifled, “Nope!” he slammed the door so hard Eddie jumped.

“Ben, what the f-”

“It’s nothing!” he said, his breeziness crumbling away to the panic beneath. “It’s fine, everything’s fine!”

Eddie picked up his inhaler and clutched it tight in his hand. “What’s fine?”

Ben made a strangled noise and shook his head. The pain seemed to clear as his eyes fell on first the inhaler and then the assorted drugstore Eddie had in his bag. He blinked. “My god, did you raid a hospital?”

Eddie made a face. _Not far off there, Ben,_ he thought, but bit it back. Sometimes he forgot how it looked to people. He was so used to looking down and seeing medication that it almost felt odd _not_ to see it. “It’s, uh…” he cleared his throat. “I’m not taking all of it right now. And they’re not dailies.”

Lie. At least three of the pill pots were full of medication that asked to be taken twice daily before meals.

Ben frowned and came nearer, his bulk crowding into Eddie’s space and reminding him of his dreams. With a flush, he stepped away. “I thought you weren’t using much right now.”

Eddie felt a little hotter under Ben’s scrutiny. The simple answer was that he hadn’t been – he’d actually narrowed it down to a couple of placebo vitamins and his inhaler when required. But then Myra walked into his life, and with her came a whole rainbow of anti-inflammatories, digestion capsules and sleeping pills. He wasn’t proud of it, but she was a nurse – she knew what she was doing. She had to, she was qualified. He just shrugged and mumbled, “I need it, man. Don’t make it weird.”

Obviously, Ben made it weird by picking up the one pill pot Eddie hadn’t recognised during his search. His frown deepened. “Eddie, are these _insomnia pills_?”

“What?” Eddie snatched the pot out of his hand, reading the label furiously. There it was, in black and white. ‘ _To be taken daily, soluble in liquid. To be used for extreme insomnia only’._ He blanched. “They’re not mine,” he muttered, another lie swelling his tongue.

He hadn’t put that pot in there. He’d never seen it before, but it was half empty. Jesus, was this the pot he’d caught Myra slipping into his bag before he’d left?

Ben shook his head, disbelievingly. “What the hell, Eddie, those things are strong enough to dope an entire football team, you’ll be a fucking zombie on them.”

“Do you want to say that any fucking louder?” Eddie hissed, panic flaring up in him. “I said they aren’t fucking mine, dumbass. I must’ve picked the pot up when I was packing, all these pots look the same.” He was lucky it didn’t have his name on, lucky that Myra had taken it from the hospital stores to give to him ‘just in case’. Eddie wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly why she’d given it to him. She did her research. ‘ _Soluble in liquid’_. The very thought made him cold.

Ben wasn’t convinced. To be honest, Eddie wasn’t convinced, either. “Hey,” he said softly, “we should talk about this.” He gestured to the bag, rattling with pills.

“Better idea,” Eddie said, burying the pot in the very depths of his bag. “Let’s… never talk about it again, and continue on with our lives.”

Ben opened his mouth to argue, but it was filled instead with Beverly’s voice from the porch screeching, “Go on, get him! He deserves it!” at the top of her lungs.

Eddie stared blankly at Ben. “What the fuck is going on out there? We’re going to get a noise complaint.”

“Uh, p-probably nothing?” Ben tried.

Eddie was out and past him before he even knew what happened. Ben didn’t exactly chase him down – he would have caught up easy – but he did call out after him. Well, fat lot of good _that_ was going to do.

He pushed the front door open and made the body blocking it jump aside. Stan. “Eddie!” he said, his eyes snapping wide. “What are you-?”

“Save it.” He elbowed him out of the way and pushed his way past a surprisingly yielding Mike and Beverly. “Where the hell is Bill?”

“Eddie, he’s not-” Mike began, but Beverly cut him off by soundlessly pointing down the crest of the hill. Eddie didn’t hesitate in walking down those steps two at a time, a mild brand of fury burning in his stomach. Mike protested weakly, but it fell on deaf ears. Eddie was on a mission, and it was to shut Bill Denbrough the fuck up before they all got kicked the hell out.

As he got to the bottom of the steps, he kept walking until he reached the top of the rise. Along with their assortment of cars, he caught sight of a new one parked in the lot. Some sort of black muscle car (Ford Mustang GT, his brain offered helpfully) without a scratch on it and only a bit of mud from the journey. For one blindingly wild moment, Eddie thought they had all banded together and bought him a fucking midlife crisis Mustang.

But then he saw Bill in a headlock, squawking and shrieking.

The complaint was halfway out of his mouth – “Okay, what the hell is going on? This place is meant to be qui-” – but then his entire body froze up. Because he knew that leather jacket holding Bill in place. He knew the broad shoulders, straining to keep him there. He knew that obnoxious honking voice as he threatened to make Bill piss himself. “Richie?”

The name burst out of him, a question instead of the usual half asleep sigh. Bill’s tormentor looked up immediately, and Eddie’s entire chest drew itself tight. Because of _course_ it was him, it was Richie, he was there with Bill’s head under his armpit and his glasses on crooked from how much Bill had struggled and what the fuck was Eddie meant to do with that information?

Richie looked murderous, but when his eyes met Eddie’s the glare was gone in an instant. What replaced it was sheer shock – and maybe a little hint of nausea. All of the components in Eddie’s mind shifted, all the little bits until they were slowly forming the whole.

_Shit,_ Eddie thought. _Shit, shit, fucking **shit.**_

It was meant to be okay, he was going to be safe here, he would have gotten through not seeing him. Now? Now he wanted to break into a smile, run to him and wrap him in a hug he was starving for. It terrified him.

Richie broke first. Swallowing what seemed to be something painful, he blurted out, “I’m trying to kill Bill,” like he had just learnt how to talk – all the wrong volume and pitch.

Eddie gave a stiff nod. “Right. Uh. R-right.”

“He deserves it,” Richie called back.

“Okay.”

Richie was still frozen solid, gawping up at him like he was scared to even move. God, was this what ignoring him had done? Made him afraid? Eddie hated himself for that. He hated that he hated himself. Wow, there were a lot of layers to that hatred, apparently.

In the moments between, Richie’s face snapped into a broad grin, the one he reserved for his gigs, and _fuck_ Eddie could’ve done without seeing _that._ “C’mon, Eds,” Richie said weakly, releasing Bill from his grasp, “you gotta blink sometime so we know you’re not a droid.”

Eddie didn’t move.

Richie’s grin weakened. “Eds? C’mon, you gonna kiss me or punch me, ‘cus I can’t tell.”

Eddie looked from Richie’s grin to Bill’s horrified face and back again, like a hunted animal. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be, Richie couldn’t be there, he promised, he promised he could let it go…

He shook his head. He couldn’t. It was too much. “I can’t fucking deal with this right now,” he said. And with that he turned on his heel and, like a coward, he just bolted.


	5. Richie Tozier Tries To Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's pov, where he has a little heart to heart with Beverly and tries to behave himself (whether he succeeds or not is your choice)
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and want to see it continue!

“Eddie!”

Bill scrambled free of Richie and headed up the hill Eddie vanished behind. Richie just stood where he was for a moment, torn between trying to jimmy his car door open and jump-starting it and going after them both. He took a few steps after Bill, and once he made the decision he wanted so badly to break into a run and sprint until his legs gave out. But he didn’t. He just followed, crackling with nervous energy, and watched as Eddie stormed past the steps to the lakehouse and headed straight into the forest that bordered them all. The rest of the Losers had run down to meet him, but Eddie ignored them too. He just kept going.

Bill was running after him, shouting his name like a panicked mother, and in the midst of Richie’s crushing realisation that Eddie really did hate him for some reason, the thought vaguely came to him that his keys were running away too. “Hey! Keys, asshole!” he demanded. No one listened.

Most of them had taken off after Eddie and Bill, shouting Eddie’s name like he was a loose fucking dog – all except Beverly. Shit, she looked pissed. She was glaring at him, really glaring, and there were no witnesses. She started to walk towards him. _Shiiiiiit._

Richie backed off, back down the rise to the car. Beverly kept coming. He pressed himself against the trunk of the Mustang as she broke into a jog, rushing down to meet him with an expression of absolute fury on her face. _Ah, finally,_ he thought bleakly, _this is the way I die._ He was man enough to know that the whole five foot eight of Beverly Hanscome-nee-Marsh striding towards you was something to be mindful of.

“What, you gonna have a pop at me too?” he asked, braver than he felt as she bore down on him. Her eyes practically flashed.

“You,” she said, stabbing a finger into his chest, “are an absolute fucking moron!”

Richie cringed away from her. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he squeaked.

“Ugh, you’re _hopeless_ ,” she said, shoving him against the Mustang with enough force to make his teeth knock together. “Couldn’t you just be normal for once? Just say ‘hey Eddie’ like a normal human?”

“Normal humans tell their friends they’re going to a bachelor party,” Richie hissed.

“Don’t get on your high horse, asshole, this isn’t on me!” She shoved him again, but with a little less strength. “I didn’t know. Bill said he’d told you.”

“Well, he lied. Obviously.”

“I guess he had something there!” Beverly seethed at him. Richie never thought he’d been more afraid of a woman before, and he’d met Sonia Kaspbrak. “God, you’re an idiot, Bill was right not to tell you because if he had you never would’ve come and… and we need you here, Richie.” Her face set. “You’re staying.”

Richie snorted. “I am not.” He pressed himself further into the car under the weight of Beverly’s glare. “I’m torturing Bill, getting my keys and I am blowing this joint.”

“The hell you are, you’re staying right here.”

“Why would I? Eddie-” He nearly choked on the word. Seeing him on that ridge, having to look up at him there – that was the thumbscrews and the rack, right there. Eddie had somehow still managed to look so smart, so held together as he’d stood there. Richie was held together by string and silly putty, but Eddie? God, he had it. He was complete. He even had a fucking _wife_ in the works. And here Richie had come, set to unravel all that. No wonder he ran. _Run for the fucking hills, Eduardo my ol’ pal!_ Richie wanted to yell after him. _Run ‘til your legs don’t work no more!_

But, man, Eddie had looked good. A little wired, a little stunned, but good.

Ayup, Richie was straight up fucked.

“-Eddie sure as hell doesn’t want me here,” he finished anyway, letting the poison settle in his stomach.

“He does,” Beverly answered, plain and simple.

God, she seemed so certain. She hadn’t seen the way he’d looked at Richie, like he wanted to be anywhere but there. “Oh sure, running off into the forests like a Regency gentleman is a classic sign of affection in the Kaspbrak household,” he sneered, turning his face away.

“You don’t get it.” Beverly shook her head. “Look at me, Rich.” He refused. “Look at me.” He rolled his eyes, and looked at her. The fire was cooling in her eyes now, the danger having passed. He relaxed a little, though he folded his arms and kept them folded. “Okay, seeing as we’re being honest here, Eddie didn’t… _exactly…_ know you were coming.”

Richie frowned. “You mean…?”

“I invited you against Eddie’s explicit wishes because you both need to get your heads out your asses and communicate like adults? Yes.”

“ _Beverly!”_

“Oh, like _you_ were going to do anything about it except drink yourself into a stupor and cry in your fancy LA apartment.”

Richie spluttered helplessly at her. “You – I – you – die.”

Beverly snorted. “You know I’m right.” She smacked his arm. “C’mon, man. Get your shit together and be happy for him.”

“I-” Richie gulped. “I’m not… sure I can.” It was too candid. He knew that the moment he said it. As usual, he opened himself up just a little bit too much, and what good would all that do? Beverly’s brows drew together in sympathy this time instead of anger, and Richie panicked. “H-hey, don’t look at me like that! Be angry, smack me again, belittle me, you like doing that shit.”

“I know it’s hard,” she said softly. “But you have to pretend. Only other option is you tell him.”

“Nope. You don’t know anything. I don’t have to tell him anything because there’s nothing to tell. Nothing at all. Ugh, gimme angry Bev back, I miss her,” Richie tried weakly, but it didn’t work.

“Rich, c’mon.” She stepped into his space again, but this time Richie flinched for a whole other reason. He didn’t want her to be kind to him, to be gentle. That was worse than the anger, than the rage. He could handle that. That might have burned him, but kindness set him on fire. “You can do this,” she urged. “Do it for him.”

 _Not this,_ Richie thought, the ache in his chest growing dark, _anything but this._ “Is he…” he coughed, trying to ignore the well of emotion that was threatening to burst its banks behind his eyes. God, he was such a crier, always had been, but now was not a good time. He tried again. “Is he happy, Bev?” When she didn’t reply, he looked back at her. She looked torn. “Bev?” he prompted, begging. God, he was pathetic.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

Richie frowned. “And what the fuck does that mean? That meant to make me feel better?” It was Beverly’s turn to avoid his eye, which only sparked something sharp and spiked inside of him. “Is something wrong? Is he… Bev, is he in trouble?”

“No.” She paused. “At least, I don’t think so.” She sighed. “He hasn’t spoken to me much either lately, but he seems…different. Quieter. Sadder.” She moved away from Richie then, resting on the Mustang’s trunk beside him. “I thought you could help with that.”

“Why me? I’m not a performing monkey.”

Their eyes met. “Because you know Eddie better than anyone,” she said, blunt with honesty. “You know you do. And – well, you make him Eddie again.”

Richie raised a brow. “I make him want to kill me.”

“Exactly. Old Eddie.” Beverly nudged him gently. “He missed you. I know he did. Just give him time.”

Richie sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Fuuuuuck, don’t do this to me Bev, it’s gonna hurt.”

Bev took one hand out of his pocket and threaded her fingers through his. Her palm was so small against his, but they somehow slotted together perfectly. “I know, sweetheart.” She squeezed gently, just the once. “But we’re fighters, right?”

“Y-Yeah,” Richie sniffed, using his free hand to wipe his eyes under the glasses. “Fuck, yeah we are.”

“And do you know what fighters get?”

He thought about it. “A free pass to beat up Bill Denbrough?”

“Close.” She dropped his hand and slid her hand in her back pocket. She brought out a crisp blue lighter and-

“Augh, Beverlyyyyy,” Richie moaned, tilting his head back in ecstasy. “You angel, you gem, you beautiful godde-”

“Do you want the cigarette or not, Richie?”

“Yespleaseandthankyou.”

He took it before Beverly had the chance to take it away or change her mind and let out another moan of pleasure once she lit it up for him. Sweet, sweet nicotine, oh how he missed it.

They leant against the car together, their twin cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the steadily darkening evening. It harkened back to the days in the Barrens, when Beverly used to bring down a pack of Camels she’d snatched from her dad and shared them out. Richie always had smokes on him, a pack of Lucky Strike he’d had for two years but never lit up. He thought it was cool to have them, but he didn’t dare smoke them; his mom was steady enough, but if she smelt smoke on him she would not hesitate to kill him. “It wasn’t what good boys do,” she told him sternly. But when Bev took a lighter to one and taught him how to get it into his lungs properly without choking, he figured he was probably a bad boy anyway and a couple of smokes wouldn’t change that.

He tried to puff out smoke rings the way Beverly taught him back then, and she smiled up at the ‘o’s that drifted up into the sky like shocked little mouths. Richie cleared his throat, breaking the companionable silence they found themselves in. “So, how much shit is Bill in?”

Beverly considered it. “Enough,” was the democratic response. “So don’t be too mad at him. He wants you here too. He was just doing-”

“-what Eddie wanted,” Richie finished. “Yeah. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Well, I dunno.” She frowned. “Part of me thinks that wasn’t Eddie talking.”

Richie paused. “Then who the hell _is_ talking?”

Beverly took a final drag, the end igniting like a Christmas decoration. “Well, if your reputation precedes you, someone who isn’t a fan of dick jokes and ‘your mom’ one-liners.”

“Yowch, Beverly Marsh gets off a good one,” he said drily.

She dropped her cigarette and crushed it underfoot. “That’s enough time. Let’s go in, grab your bags.” Richie thrust a hand pointedly at the very-much-still-locked car, and she sighed. “Fine, Bill can come get them. Off we go, slugger.”

“You’re not giving me back my keys?”

Beverly stepped up to him again, her hand reaching up to pluck the stump of a cigarette from his lips. “What, so you can just take off the moment our backs are turned?” She smiled sweetly. “Not likely.” She dropped the remnant of his cigarette on the floor and squashed it under the heel of her boot. Richie audibly whined. “Get moving, Trashmouth.”

He jutted out his bottom lip at her, pouting, but dodged a smack she sent his way. “Wow, Ben is one lucky man to be married to such a fucking tease, you know that?” he complained as they set off back to the lakehouse.

“Oh, I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him,” Beverly replied breezily, “he’s definitely into it.”

“And there it is.”

“Hmm?”

“The answer to the question I never asked and I hope you’ll never bring up again.”

He elected to follow Beverly’s lead into the house. He could hear the steady hum of conversation inside, the sound of his friends in there without him, and for some reason it filled him with a dread he’d never had before. He wasn’t meant to be there; he was filling a gap in the group that should have stayed empty. But with Beverly’s encouraging smile, he plucked up enough courage to step in after her.

He braced himself for the conversation to stop, for everyone to turn around and stare like he was some nerd sitting down at the popular kids’ table. The conversation didn’t die, to his immense relief, but it definitely got quieter. They were all assembled there like a mother’s meeting, Mike and Ben meeting his gaze with smiles that were a little too big to be genuine and Stan just rocking nervously in his direction in case he had to hold him back. Bill visibly tensed, but Richie didn’t really notice all that much. The only pair of eyes he felt were those big, brown saucers of Eddie’s.

He was sat between Ben and Stanley, and he had been laughing before Richie had come blundering in. Now he looked as though he was waiting to be shot.

“Rich,” Ben bleated, a little too loud to be normal. “Hey, bud! How’s things?”

Richie’s nod was more of a nervous twitch. “S’up, Haystack. Still built like a jock on speed I see.” Beverly elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Ow! Alright, alright, Jesus.” He took off his leather jacket, feeling the loss almost immediately. “I’m fine, Ben. Couldn’t be better.”

“Really?”

Eddie was still staring at him like he wanted to burn right through him, and if he didn’t look so terrified Richie would’ve gone mad under the heat. “Uh huh,” he said, a little strained, and turned to the kitchen. Change of subject. Anything to get those eyes off him. “Oh, fuckin’-A, a breakfast bar. Rad.” He didn’t hesitate to hop up on the tall stool, grinning easily at Beverly. “Hey, hey, didn’t I say I wanted one of these babies at my place?”

“You did,” Beverly agreed, shedding her own jacket, “for the past year.”

“I’ll get to it! Then you’ll be sorry. It’ll be the best breakfast bar in LA, folk will queue up to take a seat at the bad boy.” He slapped the breakfast bar’s countertop, looked back at the rest of them on the couches – and met Eddie’s eye, _again._ God, he was still watching him? He swallowed painfully. Well. Better late than never. “Yes?”

This time conversation did fizzle out. Eddie’s eyes widened impossibly further. “S-sorry?”

“You’ve been gawping at me like a goldfish, dude. What, you jealous of the bod I’m rocking over here?” He got up from the stool, sticking both hands in his jean pockets.

Eddie finally looked away, his jaw clenched. “No, it…s’nothing.”

Richie’s grin failed. Damn. That was a prime insult target. He’d set it up for Eddie and everything, waited for him to bite back in one of those classic, dry retorts he always did… but nothing? Eddie had swung, but for once he’d fucking missed. Richie cleared his throat. “Well. Okay then.” He tried to shrug it off, but it stuck fast. Shit, he thought it could be difficult seeing Eddie after the whole phone fiasco, but this? This really was torture.

He moved over to the seating area and sat on the one opposite Eddie, with Bill, making a brave attempt not to look in his direction. “So, what did I miss, eh? How many Losers does it take to find-”

“Eddie’s fine,” Stan answered, ignoring the furious glare Eddie shot him. “Aren’t you?” he pressed. Eddie gave a stiff nod, but that was it. “Shock to the system.”

“Yeah, I have that effect on people, ‘specially when I’m not expected.” Richie sank further into the couch and swung his legs onto Bill’s lap, kicking his shoes off at the same time. “Isn’t that right, Bill?”

Bill made a face but didn’t try to move him off. Richie grinned at him, wiggling his sock-clad toes in his direction. Tough. Deal with it, asshole. The least you can do for dragging me out here.

“So, uh. How’s LA, Rich?” Mike asked, taking a gulp of beer from his bottle. Ugh. Alcohol. Now _that_ was an idea.

Richie took the bait, like a good little boy. “It’s going, Mikey. Finished a set last week actually.”

“Sold out,” Beverly added proudly, drawing up a stool from the breakfast bar and perching on it carefully. “I saw the reviews, Trashmouth, they loved it.”

Richie rubbed the back of his neck, body prickling as the attention turned to him. He loved eyes on him when he was on stage, chased it like a high, but when he was plain ol’ Richie he couldn’t help shying away from it. Force of habit, he guessed. “You read the reviews?” he asked Bev. “Wow, you’re such a groupie. Love that about you, Beaverly. But it’s nothing really. They sell out cus they’re fucking broom closets, man. Ain’t difficult.”

“That’s amazing, Rich,” Bill said. It sounded like he really meant it. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Richie squirmed a little. Too. Much. Niceness. What do? “I was trying out new material,” he explained, a little consciously with an audience around him. “More honest stuff, more… me.” He intentionally avoided Beverly’s incredulous gaze as he continued, “So, uh, contrary to popular belief I am multi-layered. At least my manager thinks so. Trusts me to write my own shit now he knows I’m actually funny.”

“Smart manager,” Stan mused.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, “about time you started bringing a bit of you to your shows. You’ve always been funny, Rich.”

“Stawp, stawp, you’ll make a gal blush.” Richie grinned awkwardly. “Besides, you guys should be terrified. If I’m writing my own material that means you are straight in the firing line. You’re all featuring in my gags no matter what, Michael, so sue me.” 

“Bring it on Trashmouth.”

They all laughed – all except Eddie. He looked like he was trying to deduce the best method of escape as he sat there, wringing his hands in his lap. Just like that, the humour fled from Richie like it had been snatched away. Beverly was right – Eddie was quiet. He could be quiet with the others, unless something health related came up, but he was never quiet with Richie. Never. This silence was deathly, like he was almost _afraid_ to open his mouth.

Eddie’s fear made Richie angry, but he caught Beverly’s eye and swallowed it all back. _Get your shit together. Be happy for your friend. Do it for him._

“Enough about me,” he began, locking eyes on Eddie’s squirming form as he spoke, “we’re here for Eduardo over there.”

“Oh no,” Eddie said softly.

The others laughed nervously around them. Maybe they were bracing themselves too; they thought he was going to make a scene, make it about him. Excellent plan though that was, Richie knew he couldn’t. If he got angry, things would come spilling out. He couldn’t afford for that to happen.

“Eds,” he drawled. “Eddie-o. Spagheds. Eddie my love.”

Eddie shook his head just slightly. “Richie, please don’t do this,” he said, his voice almost breaking.

Oh, wow, _that_ one hurt. “What? I’m not doing anything.” Richie said, his voice too high to be natural. Eddie didn’t say anything else, so he pushed past the ache. “I just wanna say congrats, man. Is that a crime? I think it’s great. Well fucking done.”

God, every word stung. They were like pinpricks, diving into his skin and pulling back out again. But he had to try. He had to keep going, even if it hurt. He promised Beverly. He said he’d do it for Eddie because he cared, he really did, and if this was what he wanted…

“Getting married, huh? Our little Eddie Spaghetti?” he said, reining back the fondness before it drifted into dangerous territory. “Never thought you had it in you. Unless she got it in her.”

He laughed, but no one else did. Eddie looked ready to faint. Jesus, maybe the stand-up was a bad idea.

“Whew, tough crowd, okay.” He moved his legs from Bill’s lap and leant forward, his glasses falling down his nose. “I know I haven’t met her, but I bet she’s wonderful, Eds. I bet she’s the best thing that ever happened to you, right?” He smiled, paper-thin but dear god that was the best he could do. He wasn’t a miracle worker. “Well, I can’t wait to meet her. I’m sure she loves the way you shout at inanimate objects and hands you a smorgasbord of every medication under the sun if you need it. She better do, because she needs to be good enough for you, man. You deserve it.”

_Ouch, now that one went **right** to the kidneys._

Eddie’s eyes were filling with tears, to Richie’s surprise, and he would have thought that it was happy crying if it wasn’t for the way his hands were curling into fists and shaking by his sides. God, Eddie was fucking _furious._ He hadn’t even reached a punchline. He wasn’t sure there was one – this ‘trying to be happy for Eddie’ thing was hard enough without trying to wrangle in a joke.

He tried one more time. “A-and if I can’t meet her until the wedding, I wanna know about her. Tell me everything. Tell me why you love her.”

Too far? Potentially. Eddie stood up so fast that Stan and Mike knocked shoulders, and he looked _incensed_. Okay, definitely too far. Shit.

He was glaring down at Richie, fists held stiffly by his sides and still shaking, shaking so badly. Richie got a sharp, cruel twist of pleasure from that. Good. Anger was better than fear. He could work with Eddie’s anger, temper it into something that meant they’d be laughing before too long. He couldn’t handle fear.

“Stop it,” Eddie said, his voice wobbling like he was a little kid again. “Just… shut the fuck up, Richie.”

Richie blinked, wrong-footed. “Hey, now come on. This isn’t a bit, I wanna know.” Lie. “Isn’t that what these parties are for?”

“Richie,” Beverly warned, looking between the two of them worriedly.

“What, Bev? What am I doing wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “Excuse me for not getting this right, I don’t usually find out my best friend is getting married the day I turn up at his bachelor party without realising.”

Silence. Richie could hear a pin drop. That had been too sharp, too barbed with something. Fuck. And he’d been doing so well, too. It was a joke, he wanted to scream at them all, it was obviously a joke, he was smiling wasn’t he? But no one was laughing. Eddie actually looked ready to keel over.

“Fuck you, Richie,” he said softly, his voice shaking. “Fuck you.” He marched off down the hall to the bedrooms, opening the second door and slamming it so hard they all flinched.

If it was any other time, Richie probably would’ve gotten up and gone after him, hammering on the door and demanding to be let in. But this time, he just sat there, unmoving and trying to ignore the wounds he’d made in his own chest. “Okay, what the fuck was that?” he asked the astounded room.

“Oh my god,” Bill said, his eyes unblinking.

“Wow, Richie,” Stan sighed, pinching the spot between his brows.

“Jesus.”

“Ookay, feeling a little attacked here.” He held up his hands in surrender. “What’d I do?”

Beverly was the one who stood up, who looked at him with a mix of frustration and disappointment. “Well done, Rich.”

She got up to follow Eddie down the hall, the look she shot them all daring them to go after her. Richie felt a pang of jealousy as the door gingerly opened and she was let in. That should have been him, damnit. Instead, he just sat there, like a moron. 

“I thought…” he tried, but Stan cut him off.

“Did you? Did you actually think?” he asked. “Is a brain a thing you have?”

“What?!”

“Couldn’t you see Eddie’s face?” Bill washed a hand over his face. “God, he looked like he was going to break apart, Rich, and you just kept going.”

“I was being nice!” he defended. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t even make a joke about his non-existent sex life!”

“No, you didn’t,” Mike agreed, sinking back into the couch with a sigh. “Maybe that’s what spooked him.” 

“Perfect. So not only does he stop taking my calls, now I can’t even talk to him properly.” Richie sighed. “Might as well hand me those keys now, Big Bill. Save us all some time.”

He beckoned for them hopefully, but Bill shook his head. “No way. You don’t get out that easy.”

“Aw, c’mon!” Richie whined. “Do you want to see me in constant physical pain this week?” Silence greeted his words. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Look, you’re trying to be supportive, we get it. Just… try to be careful, alright?” Ben advised, chancing a look towards the bedroom Eddie had disappeared into. “None of us really know what’s going on with Eddie right now, but he’s a bit delicate.”

“Yeah, I guess impending matrimony will do that to you,” Richie muttered, prompting Bill to sock him in the face with the nearest cushion.

* * *

Eddie didn’t leave his room for the rest of the evening. Beverly came out after an hour or so, but she batted away all questions as they all crowded around her. “He just wants to be left alone for a while,” she said.

“It’s his party, Bev,” Bill frowned.

“He’ll be fine. He actually feels a little woozy, so he’s having a lie down.”

Richie perked up at that, half-rising out of his chair.

“Is he okay?” Stan asked.

“He says it’s normal, says it happens sometimes. So, you know, it’s not just Richie’s fuck up.”

Richie scowled. “Hey!”

In all honesty, he didn’t think he’d fucked up. He thought he’d done the best he could, given the circumstances. But it still wasn’t enough. He carried on like normal with the others, throwing out jokes every now and again and butting into Stan’s video call with Patty. But his mind kept wandering to that firmly shut door, even though he tried his best to ignore it. Eddie was there. Eddie was there, he wanted to see him, wanted to talk. But Beverly was right – this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about how he felt a hot mix of anger and sickness at the idea of Eddie getting married, how he’d bottled up every long look and slight touch and always thought… always hoped…

Anyway. He felt bad. He had to grow up.

That was why he wasn’t annoyed about having to sleep out on one of the couches, with an array of blankets and comforters from out the back of Mike’s car. Whoever had booked the lakehouse hadn’t booked enough rooms for seven. Well, there were two double rooms and a room with a double and single bed, so technically there was enough room. But Ben and Beverly had one double room, Stanley, Bill and Mike were sharing the odd room (Richie didn’t ask who was sharing the double), and Eddie had the second double room. There were very obvious reasons why Richie couldn’t share with Eddie – he didn’t fancy waking up dead, for one. He had floated the idea of sharing with Beverly and Ben but they hadn’t been keen. Then he’d suggested booting Ben out entirely.

“Whaat, Eddie’s tiny! You wouldn’t even know he was there.”

“You and Beverly? Sharing?” Ben asked sceptically.

Richie put a hand to his chest, affronted. “I am a delicate rose, Benjamin! But don’t you worry, I’m sure Beverly will treat me with the tenderness I deserve and make the most honest woman of me.”

Shockingly, that hadn’t gone down well.

So there he was – on the couch. He deserved it, really. It was the ultimate naughty step treatment: you upset our Eddie, no bed for you. That made sense to him. Besides, he’d fallen asleep in worse places.

Bill brought his bag into the lakehouse after they’d had dinner (Beverly had snuck some into Eddie like he was in goddamn Shawshank), but Richie still had no idea where his keys were. He’d jumped Bill for them a couple of times, but after the second attempt to drown him in the sink Mike shouted out, “He doesn’t have them, stop trying to murder him!” so Richie was bested – for the moment.

He wasn’t sleeping in his clothes, so there was some god: he made a point of telling them all that he usually slept naked but he would wear a ratted old shirt and boxers to save their jealousy. They seemed thankful for that. None of them made a comment about the shirt he’d chosen; a greying shirt with the phrase ‘FRANKIE SAY RELAX’ printed in black letters across the chest. It had been a present from Eddie when they were in college, when Richie had gleefully told anyone who’d listen that Frankie Goes To Hollywood were talking about sex in that song. “There, now you can parade it around and stop bothering me with your smutty trivia!” Eddie had sneered, flinging it at him when they met up for Christmas. Richie treasured the thing. Maybe Beverly noticed, but if he did she didn’t say anything. She just wished him goodnight like the rest of them and retreated into her room. With her husband. And her happiness. Uck.

But once they all turned in and left Richie out there on his own, with the muted sounds of the forest for company, could he sleep? Not. Not a chance.

He hovered on the brink of sleep for a couple hours until the sound of a door opening down the hall opened his eyes automatically. Probably Stan trying to find the bathroom. The lack of streetlights around meant the lakehouse was pitch black, the only light the occasional sliver of moon that peeked through the windows and cast strange shapes.

Richie was surprised, then, when the set of feet padded quietly towards the open-plan kitchen. He pulled the blankets tighter around him like a frightened maid, the scent of musty books assaulting his nose. He fought down a sneeze and watched someone appear near the breakfast bar, breaking a beam of moonlight. _Eddie_ , he thought immediately. He didn’t even have to check. He knew it was, just by the way he moved, careful and consciously. Wow, Eddie might hate his guts but he clearly still wanted him to get his recommended 7 – 9 hours’ sleep. Adorable.

Richie let himself watch Eddie move about the kitchen for a while, wondering idly if there was something wrong with doing that. The hell with it, he thought, it was a free country. He was allowed to stare. Eddie was wearing pyjamas, actual full length _pyjamas_ like a little old man who wanted the kids to keep off his lawn. Richie knew almost like an instinct that they would be ironed and pressed, and though he couldn’t quite tell what colour they were he hoped they were patterned. God, he hoped they were fucking pinstriped or some shit so he could really go to town on Eddie for them.

However neat his clothes were, his hair couldn’t hope to match it. Free of the product he used to keep it flat and combed in the day, it was thick and ruffled in various directions. It was hair you could run your hands through, snag in places, hold fistfuls of. Richie banished that thought from his mind _immediately._ He didn’t want to make it weirder than it already was. But Eddie looked nice like this, with that dewy-eyed look and those fucking old man pyjamas. Christ.

As Eddie pottered around, stifling a yawn as he poured water into the coffee maker in the corner that was definitely his own, Richie felt something in him settle. It was so delightfully domestic, seeing Eddie like this. There wasn’t anything pulling on him, drawing up his shoulders and keeping him tense and ready for something to jump out at him. He’d always looked that way when they were younger, when he was living in his mother’s shadow and ready to get straight home if Something Bad happened. Thing was, there was always Something Bad happening; being together meant they would take it on. Together with the Losers. Together with Richie. And Eddie got better. But now he only relaxed when he thought no one else was looking at him?

Richie bit his lip. He wasn’t sure he could do this. He’d tried the nice approach, and it hadn’t worked. It had somehow annoyed Eddie, and it just made the knife in his back twist just that little bit more. Was this what he’d done to him? Had he gone too far? Oh _shit,_ had he flirted by accident and Eddie noticed it? Well, fuck him, Richie Tozier was hot real estate.

He made a decision, and it was probably a stupid one. He drew back his nest of blankets, grabbed his glasses from the floor and got up, crossing the room to where the gently steaming coffee maker, where Eddie, was stood. “Enough for one more?” he yawned. It wasn’t ‘hello’, or ‘sorry’, but he figured it might be enough.

Eddie spun around, his eyes snapping open wide. He reminded Richie of a startled owl, and it did something funny to his stomach. Oh wow, okay, game on.

“Richie?”

“Huh?” Eddie was blinking at him. Shit, had he zoned out? “What?”

“I said you scared the shit out of me.”

“Oh.” He paused. “You’re welcome? I hear colonic irrigation works wonders these days.”

Eddie’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Wow, remind me why you’re single.”

“Remind me why you’re not.”

Eddie opened his mouth a few times, gaping at him, but in the end he seemed to think it wasn’t worth the fight. “Well, whatever. You could’ve killed me. People die of shock all the time, especially if they have weak hearts. It’s a medical condition.”

“Alright, WebMD, I’ll bear that in mind.” Richie leant against the countertop, watching Eddie work the coffee maker. Eddie’s hands were by no means delicate, but they were somehow precise, able to work dials and knobs that Richie fumbled over. Eddie had always said he wanted to work on engines when he was older, maybe a mechanic in a big shop or Formula One. Eddie would have been amazing with Ferrari or Mercedes, Richie thought. Maybe McLaren. His road rage would translate well onto pit crew – those little guys always seemed angry and ready to chew someone’s ear off.

But Sonia Kaspbrak would never let him do it, not her precious boy who had a mind for insurance and not for droning machines. Richie wondered if Eddie regretted it, wondered if a job for his mind and not his hands was something he actually wanted.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, mentally shaking himself. _Stop thinking about Eddie. Stop it, he’s right in front of you, this should be illegal._

Eddie shook his head. “Not really. I, uh, sort of passed out earlier. Didn’t wake up until 9.”

“You passed out?” Richie blinked. Beverly had said he was taking a nap. Passing out was something completely different. “You okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine, it… it’s a side effect of something I take. It’s no big deal,” Eddie said, waving his concerns away. He frowned. “How come you’re not sleeping?”

“New place,” Richie shrugged. “New sounds. I never sleep properly the first night I’m away.”

“Oh yeah, I remember.” Eddie froze then, as if he’d just realised he was actually talking to him. “D-did you say you wanted-?”

“If there’s any left.”

“R-right.”

They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t as tension filled as before, which Richie was grateful for. “Look,” he said, as Eddie added milk to their cups, “I guess I should say I’m sorry.”

Eddie blinked up at him. “What? What are you apologising for?”

“Can it be a blanket ‘sorry’? For everything?”

“You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

Richie whined. “Are you gonna make me say it, Eds?”

“Don’t call me Eds, asshole,” Eddie said, almost like it was rehearsed. “You can’t just say sorry and hope I get what you mean.”

“Okay, fine. God, you’re annoying.” Richie inhaled sharply. “Sorry for earlier. I was trying to be nice, but I guess I’m just not good at that.” _I’m also sorry for being here,_ he wanted to say with a sinking stomach. _I’m sorry for being your friend and pissing you off and for being so damn awful that all you could think of doing was cutting me out of your life._ Eddie’s hand stilled on the coffee maker. “I am happy for you, Eds,” he continued, even though the words churned up his stomach nastily. “Honest. If it’s not showing, I can… I can try harder.”

“You shouldn’t need to try, Rich.” Eddie’s voice was small, barely there. It wasn’t a telling off, but it hit Richie like it was. “You can just be happy, right?” Richie hoped to god he didn’t pull a face. He tried his best. Eddie didn’t seem to notice a change, thank god. “Besides,” Eddie continued, “I wouldn’t worry too much. You just know how to piss people off.”

“Well it is my greatest gift.” Richie paused. “Maybe that’s all I know how to do.”

Eddie shook his head. “God, shut up, that’s not true.” Richie stared at him, a little nonplussed, as he turned to fill their cups with the earthy-smelling coffee. “You know it’s not.” He nudged the sugar pot Richie’s way and fervently avoided his gaze, his jaw clenched tightly.

Richie took a sip of the coffee without sugar, cringed and heaped three teaspoons of sugar into his cup. He saw Eddie look at him and silently judge. He grinned a little – just a little. “Is this how it’s going to be now?” he asked. It came out softer than he wanted it to.

Eddie stiffened. “Like what?”

“Like this.” He waved at the empty space between them. “Like you… like you shouldn’t be talking to me.” He frowned. “Is this to do with you not answering my messages?”

Eddie suddenly looked very pale. He set his mug down shakily, a small sigh escaping him. “Things… never stay the same, Richie,” he said, dipping his head against his chest. “They always change.”

“But not us.” When Eddie looked up at him, Richie felt a bolt of panic and added, “a-all of us, I mean,” like he was supposed to do. “We look out for each other, right? Always have. It’s been 27 years, what has to change about that?”

Eddie frowned and it looked… defeated. Lost. “It’s hard to explain,” he answered, draining his mug despite the scalding temperature and pouring out more. “Don’t… don’t make me do it, Rich. Please.”

Richie would have argued back, if not for the ‘please’. Eddie never said ‘please’, and especially not to him. It was the closest he ever got to begging. Richie didn’t like it, didn’t like what it meant that Eddie was reduced down to the sort of man that begged. “Are you…” he squinted. “Eds, are you _scared_ of me?”

To his surprise, that seemed to send Eddie forwards, his coffee almost spilling over as he stepped towards him. “No, Richie, god I’m not scared of you!” he hissed, trying desperately to keep his voice down. “You’re my… fuck, you’re my best friend, dude, and you’re a walking Sesame Street character. You couldn’t do shit to me.”

“That sounds like a challenge. Also, important question: which Sesame Street character?”

“I don’t know. Is there a stupid big one that always asks dumb questions?”

“Yeah, he’s friends with a small obnoxious one.”

Eddie cracked a smile, but quickly smacked Richie on the shoulder. “Not funny. You’re not funny.” His smile fell as he clearly thought about it. “But I… I’m really not afraid of you, Rich. I could never be afraid of you.”

“Do you want me to leave, then? Because if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. No questions asked.”

Eddie looked at him, and Richie was struck by how grown up he looked. They were all getting older, of course they were, but Eddie looked like he had the weight of the fucking world on his shoulders. Smiling made him look younger, like the Eddie he knew, but now? Now he was almost a stranger. A stranger who was getting married, and didn’t take his calls, and didn’t want him around. Beverly had said that he could make Eddie better, but how the fuck could he even start if Eddie wouldn’t let him? Eddie bit his lip, shuffled from side to side the way he did when he was nervous, and Richie waited.

“No,” Eddie said, soft and quiet. “No, I don’t want you to go.”

Warmth spread through Richie’s body, the kick of validation he needed. Eddie looked wretched, looked tired and stressed and _adult_ , but Richie knew he could fix that. If Eddie wanted him to. Instead of promising all that he just let out a quiet laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “God, this is gross.”

“What is?”

“Us being… sincere. And sensible.” He made a face. “What happened, man? We gonna stay like this?”

To his surprise, Eddie let out a breathy chuckle. He’d tried to hold it in, it was clear, but he just couldn’t help himself. “God, I hope you don’t,” he breathed. “I think you’d combust. The tiny child trapped inside you would wither and die before he ever got to escape.”

“Oh, har har.” Richie glanced at him. “One last bit of sincerity for this late night chat?”

Eddie took another sip of his coffee. “I’m going to regret this, but shoot.”

Richie leant across the top towards him, forcing all humour out of his voice as he said, “Whatever I did to make you cut me out, I’m sorry. But hey, I’m here now, and I missed you. So can we forget it happened and just… be normal?”

Eddie looked as though he had just taken out a gun, handed it to him and asked him to shoot. The hand he had on the counter twitched, the fingers almost reaching out to him. Richie wanted to bridge the gap, stupidly and recklessly, but he always had been stupid and reckless. He took a step closer, tiny and almost unnoticeable, but Eddie drew his hand back. “Richie, it’s not… you’re not… it’s…” He sighed, his shoulders slackening. “It’s not that simple.”

“Oh.” Richie moved away, the coffee now tasting bitter in his mouth despite the overload of sugar. “Shit, Eds, I must have really fucked you up.”

Eddie flinched like he was the one who was emotionally bleeding out between the two of them. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “Honest. You gotta believe me, Richie. It’s… something I have to do. It’s my problem.”

“Wait. ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” Richie scoffed. “Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Eddie bit his lip, so hard it drew blood.

The anger flared up in Richie again, ugly and spiteful. “I don’t even get an explanation? I’m not worth that?”

“It’s for the best,” Eddie said, his voice adopting a clipped and precise tone Richie recognised from the times Eddie answered his phone without checking the caller ID. It was his Eddie-the-Risk-Analyst voice. He was using his fucking business voice on him? Really?

“Incorrect,” Richie said bluntly.

Eddie frowned, confused. “But-”

“It isn’t for the best, Edward. It’s the fucking worst.” Richie was raising his voice, he knew he was, but he just couldn’t help it. “And just because you think it’ll be better, doesn’t mean I have to agree.”

“Wh-”

“If I did nothing wrong, then I’m going to treat you like I always do.”

“That’s not-”

“Don’t care. You absolved me of all blame, dickwad, so I’m in the clear and I’m gonna friend the fuck out of you.”

Eddie gawped at him. “I’m – you’re – this is -” he spluttered.

“Aw, you’re lost for words. Good, that’ll make this easy.”

“You can’t **_do_** that,” Eddie hissed, mindful of the volume.

Richie grinned at him over the top of his mug. “Just watch me, Eddie Spaghetti. Juuuust watch me. I’m not giving up on you.”

“I’m literally _asking_ you to give up on me.” 

“No way, Spagheds. You’re my best friend, dude. Not gonna happen.” Richie took a sip of his coffee and set it down on the side, raising his brows in a challenge. “Bring it on.”

Eddie spluttered and stammered a little more, and Richie let it happen. He took a few more sips of coffee as Eddie’s brain clearly incited a mayday warning and tried to shut itself down, and he couldn’t help smiling at him. This break was going to ruin him.

Eddie finally managed to spit out, “Oh, you are _such_ a fucking asshole,” and Richie _beamed._

“Yup,” he responded brightly. “Ain’t I the worst?”

Eddie pushed past him into the hall and headed towards his room. Richie waved after him. “Sweet dreams!”

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Richie let the smile drop. _Fuck,_ that had been close. He went back to his makeshift bedroom and dug around in the covers for his phone. Once he had it, he opened up one of his most used contacts. With the coffee Eddie made him on the table in front of him, he tapped in a message.

[To: Queen of My Life, 01:23am]

\- _when did you change your name in my phone bev what are you twelve_  
 _\- anyway you were right somethings going on i don’t like it  
\- and this isnt just about the thing we dont talk about  
\- you said to do it for him and i am im doing this for him i wanna know what the fuck is goin on_

To his surprise, his phone lit up with a message only a minute or so later.

[From: Queen of My Life, 01:26am]  
- _I heard you two talking, did he rip your throat out?  
-Also does this mean you’re not leaving?_

Richie hesitated over his reply. He glanced in the direction of Eddie’s door, and then to the steadily cooling coffee in front of him. He fired back a response with a strength and conviction he hoped would last until the morning.

[To: Queen of My Life, 01:34am]  
- _I’m not going fucking anywhere._


	6. Eddie Kaspbrak Is Ignoring Him (He Swears)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's pov; poor Bev becomes a therapist, Richie is annoying and he remembers something important. 
> 
> Additionally: Stan gives the Losers a reason to fear him and Ben figures Eddie out.
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and want to see it continue!

Eddie woke up the next morning in a fine sweat. He hadn’t slept for long, but that didn’t matter; he’d slept plenty during the evening. Eddie wished he could sleep through the whole trip, even though he knew it was impossible. Maybe he could sleep so deeply that the dreams wouldn’t come, like they had again. They always fucking did.

It took him a few seconds of sleepy, blissful ignorance until he remembered why he wished for that so much more than usual – when it came, it hit him like a truck.

Richie.

Richie was here.

He was here, and he couldn’t do anything about it, and that was bad.

Eddie flopped back into the soft mattress, muffling his loud groan with a pillow with limited success. What the hell was he going to do? Seeing him again wasn’t like seeing the parts of him in his dreams; it hurt like a punch to the stomach, but it left him feeling strangely… good. Like taking a hit, finally, after years of going cold turkey. Addictions always felt good, he reminded himself bitterly. Some illnesses made you feel good, euphoric even, before they really got their teeth into you. Before they tore you all apart.

God, he couldn’t stand the fact that he’d run away like that, back by the cars. He was a coward. He ran because he didn’t know what else to do, because standing there and just _talking_ to Richie felt too hard. He was scared of the dreams, and what it would mean having to look at Richie and know that the pieces would fall together. They would create a whole, one he never wanted or deserved, and there was nothing that could stop the rising panic in his throat.

The others came after him, of course they did, but he couldn’t explain why he’d just run off. They found him pretty quick; Ben was definitely a bloodhound in a past life, since he’d managed to catch up to him within minutes. Eddie didn’t mind. Part of him wanted to be found.

He couldn’t handle it again once they were inside the lakehouse, in close proximity. His skin was too small for him, his eyes stuck to Richie as he moved around and joked with them all like nothing was wrong. And that comment about a breakfast bar, how he wanted one (“ _It’ll eat into the living room, Eddiekins”)_ drove him to fucking distraction. Then Richie spoke to him. Richie was – god, he was so _nice_ , so civil and proper about it all. It was the final straw. Eddie could take the jokes or snide comments, even an argument – but there was no way in hell he could sit there and listen to Richie Tozier wishing him well on a marriage he hadn’t even known about. It was like having small pieces of him gouged out, slowly and painfully, and he wasn’t allowed to scream.

_Not you,_ he thought, _anyone but you._

He couldn’t watch Richie’s large hands twisting together, the way his eyes darted to Beverly after every breath, the hunch to his shoulders. He had been… quiet. Nervous. Distinctly un-Richie-like. Eddie hated seeing him like that; he wanted to get up and shake him, yell at him, shout, “I am the bad guy here, asshole! Stop looking at me like that!”

So, naturally, he’d ejected himself from the situation like a fucking supersonic bullet.

He ran a hand down his face, letting a heavy sigh roll off him like a wave. Last night came back to him too. Richie had to go and be so fucking gracious and ask him, ask _Eddie,_ if he should leave. It hurt him to ask, Eddie could see it, but Richie had offered him an exit door that was slightly ajar – and Eddie hadn’t taken it. Instead, he had slammed the door and said _no, no, please stay_ because he was weak and couldn’t bear the thought of Richie walking back out again. Even if it hurt to be near him, he wanted it.

God, he was more of an addict than he thought.

A knock on the door made him sit up, hastily buttoning his pyjama shirt from where it had opened during the night. “Who is it?” he called out. _Not Richie,_ he hoped furiously. _Christ, not him._ If he had to take one more moment of seeing him in that ancient ‘Frankie Say Relax’ t-shirt, he was certain he would have some sort of aneurism.

“Just me,” Beverly called back.

Eddie relaxed. He reached the door and pulled it open, offering her a weak smile. “Hey,” he greeted.

Beverly’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as he let her in. It made sense; since she was the one who got to him first, she was the one who had to talk him down from an impending breakdown. He didn’t blame her. Beverly never wanted that sort of responsibility.

“I brought you breakfast,” she said, and Eddie dimly registered a tray with a mug of coffee, a stack of toast and…

He choked.

A glass of orange juice.

_Soluble in liquid._

_It was ridiculous,_ he thought as Beverly set it down on the bedside table. Myra had got the juice for him, packed it in with all the food because it was his favourite brand and she knew he was fussy. It was a nice thing for her to do. He was being irrational, paranoid. He did that a lot. 

“How are you feeling?” Beverly asked, snapping Eddie out of it.

“Uh. Better. Much better.” He picked up the orange juice and took a gulp, just to prove himself wrong. No medical aftertaste, it was fine. Jesus. “Sorry you had to deal with me yesterday.”

“Don’t apologise,” she said gently, sitting down on the bed. “And I wasn’t ‘dealing with you’. I was worried.” Her smile faltered a little. “It… seemed like you needed to get it all out.”

“Still. You probably think I’m nuts.” He went to the bedside table on the other side of the double and picked up his three prescription pots. Tipping out one pill from each, he rolled them around in his palm. They knocked together like bumper cars, yellow and red and white.

“I don’t think you’re nuts, Eddie.” Beverly took the opportunity to munch on a piece of toast as he took the pills with the juice, the way he always did. “Do… you want to talk about it?”

The honest answer was _absolutely not._ It had all come out in the panic, the white hot feeling that took over his mind and had him gabbling nonsense. He knew his voice had broken like fine china as he asked what the hell Richie was doing there, how he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t see him, he just couldn’t, and why hadn’t anyone told him? It had just rushed out of him like a torrent of water, non-stop and endless. He must have asked the same question a thousand times over.

Instead of answering, he merely shook his head and took a piece of toast Beverly held out to him. “God, I’m the worst. I bet you’ve all had such an awesome time so far.” He paused. “Did Bill tell you anything?”

Beverly shuffled a little awkwardly. “He said you aren’t inviting Richie to the wedding.”

Eddie sighed. “I just thought it was too much,” he said. Not strictly a lie. “We’ve… got our own lives now. And this isn’t going to be a big thing, it’s just in the local church with… with not many witnesses… mainly her family, since I don’t have much of that left.” His chest started to get tight, the way it always did when he talked about the wedding. He got his inhaler from the bedside table drawer and triggered it down his throat. His lungs let out a sigh of relief.

Beverly chewed on her lip before she said, tentatively, “Eddie, are you sure about this?” He tensed, and she added, “I just mean it’s quick! I never thought you’d be the sort of person to rush into anything, but it feels like that’s what you’re doing right now.” She frowned. “Do you think that maybe… it’s too soon?”

Eddie chewed his toast slowly, avoiding her eye. _If you knew the whole story, you’d understand. If you knew what I think about, dream about, have stuck in my blood like a virus, you would know why I have to do this. I have to prove it to Myra, to Mom, to everyone._ _I have to prove that I can fight this, that I can do it right._

He swallowed awkwardly. “She loves me, Bev,” he said. “I’m doing it for her.”

“Sure. But…” Beverly looked torn.

“But what?”

“That’s not really an answer, Eddie. It also doesn’t explain why you’ve been ignoring Richie for months on end, or that you don’t want him near you.” There was a bite to her voice, a bite he deserved.

He took another ferocious mouthful of toast to stop himself from saying anything else. He ate the whole thing, just to put off talking. But Beverly was nothing if not patient. And persistent. She waited. Once he finished, he replied, “Well I wouldn’t worry about that. His Majesty’s already informed me it’s his life’s ambition to get me talking by the end of this.”

Beverly chuckled at that. “Sounds like Richie.” She sobered. “Is that really such a bad thing?”

“No.” Eddie bit on his lip, the same spot he had the night before. “I guess that’s the problem.”

Beverly didn’t say anything for a while. Eddie was worried that he’d said too much, that she’d seen through him to where the hurt and the ache nestled like an octopus around his insides. He picked up the coffee and leant against the opposite wall, savouring the bitter taste of caffeine – the first of three hits of the day. Beverly ran a hand through her hair, clearly thinking through something. Beverly thinking always meant potential danger for him, so he kept quiet.

Myra wasn’t a fan of Beverly; Eddie could understand Richie for obvious reasons, but someone not liking Beverly was like someone hating the sun. It just didn’t make sense to him. He knew it was because Bev was a woman, that she’d run with six boys since they were thirteen and that was ‘odd’, so unbecoming of a girl: or so the grown-ups always thought. His mom was one of them. She’d never let Beverly into the house for fear of ‘tainting’ it – whatever ‘tainting’ meant. The grown-ups had never understood, always thought the worst of Young Beverly Marsh, and he guessed that Myra was cut from the same cloth.

Then again, Eddie also reckoned it was due to some of the pictures she had seen; there were multiple instances where Bev had a bottle in her hand, a cigarette in the other, and draped herself over them all. Some pictures saw her drunkenly leaning against him, sticking her tongue out at the camera. Others saw her landing a kiss on Richie’s cheek, or having a piggyback off Bill, or wrapping an arm around Stan and pulling him in close. That was normal. That was Bev. They were Her Boys, and she was Their Girl. That was the way it always was; it didn’t matter if she was married to Ben. In a way, she was married to all of them.

Eddie realised how, without thinking, he’d been keeping his distance from her. Taking another sip of the coffee, he ventured closer and perched on the bed next to her. Beverly took his hand without hesitating, and Eddie folded his hand around hers with a smile. “It’s just hard. You know?”

“Eddie…” Beverly was biting her lip again. “Can I ask you something? And can you promise not to freak out on me?”

He froze, readying himself for the freak out. “Sure,” he answered tightly.

Beverly looked down at their hands, her brows drawing together as she frowned. “Are you-”

An assault on his door made both of them jump, and the moment was gone. Eddie took his hand back and stood up. “What the-?”

“Eduardo! Stop sucking face with Ben’s wife and get the hell out here, that’s my job!”

Richie. Of course.

There were a few more resounding BOOMS on his door. “Time to do something fun! You remember what fun is, right?”

Eddie looked to Beverly. “He’s your best friend,” she reminded him.

“No take-backs on that?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Fine.”

He pulled the door open to see Richie, miraculously dressed, on the other side. Well. ‘Dressed’ was one way of putting it. Though the dark t-shirt he wore seemed normal enough, the turquoise shirt with seabirds screaming across it was most certainly _not._ At least it wasn’t ‘Frankie Say Relax’. Eddie had to take the little mercies. “We’re having a conversation,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Good morning to you too, Spaghetti,” Richie replied. God, he had that ancient leather jacket slung over his shoulder that smelt of mothballs. He put it on right there and then, eclipsing most of the horrendous seabird shirt along with it. For some reason, wearing an outdoor jacket indoors ignited a familial rage in Eddie that nothing else had. “Just got up?” Richie added, gesturing to his pyjamas.

Eddie scowled at him. “I slept through most of last night, idiot. Why are you so awake?”

“The early bird doth catch the Spaghetti.”

“That – that doesn’t even make sense, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Richie was practically bouncing on his heels. His smile was easy, something natural after forcing it on the night before. Eddie knew it had been forced – he was accustomed to all of Richie’s smiles by now, and this particular one stoked that rage and want even more. _Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this._

“Thought you might try to run off if you got up before me,” Richie replied, and wow the guy was _giddy_. The bastard was really enjoying himself. “So here I am. Catching you.”

_You caught me a long time ago,_ Eddie wanted to say. He didn’t. “Well, whatever hare-brained scheme you have, can it wait until I’m dressed?”

“It’s technically Stan’s plan, but I guess.” Richie’s smile widened as he looked him up and down, and Eddie couldn’t stop a flush rising to the surface.

“Now what?” he snapped.

“I forgot to mock your pyjamas, dude, fuck I’m losing my touch.” Richie took in the blue and red pinstripes, the neat little buttons. He raised a finger in thought. “Hold on. Something’s coming.”

“Here’s a thought: you could just. Not.”

“No, no, I’ll get to it…” Richie closed his eyes, deep in thought, then snapped them open with a click of his fingers. “Sherlock Holmes’ grandad.”

Eddie blinked at him. “Incredible. And you’re a… comedian? That’s what you chose as a profession?”

“Where’s Mastah Waine, Alfred?”

“Hilarious. These are Ralph Lauren. They’re pure cotton. You done?”

“Pass the tea tray, Jeeves.”

“Goodbye, Richie!” He slammed the door in his face. “You seem to forget I’m not talking to you!”

“You just did! Where’s your TARDIS, Doctor Who?” Richie shouted through the keyhole.

“He’s called the Doctor and fuck you, asshole!” Eddie shouted back. He turned around to see Beverly staring at him from her spot on the bed. She looked oddly smug.

“You regretting the best friend thing yet?” she asked.

Eddie shrugged. “You said no take-backs.”

“Oh boy,” she sighed. 

* * *

It turned out that Stan’s amazing idea was to go for a hike in the forest. “I thought it would be nice to get a lay of the land, explore a little,” he explained later, once they were all more awake.

“What he means,” Bill cut in, “is he wants to find out where the lake is so he can play sailors.”

“That is not remotely what I meant.”

“Okay, so I want to find where the lake is,” Bill admitted with a smile. “I’ve not been this side before, I was always a little further back. I wanna know how close it is.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Mike said. “Not planning on hiding a body or something, are you?”

Bill looked pointedly over at Richie, who was in the process of shovelling three Pop Tarts into his mouth at once. Eddie didn’t blame him; no self-respecting person would be eating such sugary junk as their breakfast staple. Then again, it was probably because Richie had been following him around the kitchen earlier belting out, “I know a song that’ll get on your nerves”, until he threw a spoon at him and shrieked at him to shut the hell up. Yeah. Probably that. This whole ‘ignoring Richie’ idea was easier said than fucking done.

Through a mouthful of the Pop Tarts, Richie said, “Wanna see lake. Hike good.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. Eloquent.

“Have you _ever_ hiked, Richie?” Bill asked around a smile.

“Yes! How dare you, Billiam!” Richie replied adamantly, spraying crumbs everywhere. Eddie made a conscious decision to shuffle away from him, even if it meant nearly falling off the couch. “I am an outdoorsman of the highest regard. Got my scout badges and everything.”

“You were never in the Scouts,” Stan pointed out.

“Well if I was, I’d have aced that shit.”

Mike chipped in, “You’ll have to go easy on us, Stan the Man. I haven’t hiked for a long time, and I’m sure you’re used to walking for days.”

Stan, to Eddie’s slight amusement, preened a little at the praise. “Well, I do walk a fair way… but don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” He smiled. “I don’t think the lake is that far away, so we shouldn’t be doing anything too difficult.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ben said brightly. “I can’t remember the last time I hiked!”

“Does that sound good to you, Eddie?” Stanley asked.

Eddie blinked. “Oh, uh. Yeah, sounds great.” He hadn’t hiked since the camp out when they were teenagers. He’d always wanted to, with the Scouts or a Society in college, but his mom… well, she was never very keen on him wandering off into untouched wilderness.

He was distracted by the distressed buzz of his phone. As everyone got up to get ready, he took a breath and checked his messages.

_Unread: 42._

He sighed. Oh boy. He hadn’t looked at his phone for almost two days. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to do that; it was usually stuck to him, either at his ear or in his pocket, but the thought just hadn’t crossed his mind to even turn it on until that morning. Myra was probably worried sick.

When he opened up his inbox, sure enough every single message had come from her. There were a lot of repeated messages (mainly, ‘Eddiebear, call me’ or ‘missing you!’) but there was a particular sequence of messages that had come from just that morning.

[From: Myra, Sent: 07:01]

- _Eddiebear, please call me, I’m so worried I’ve not heard anything from you!  
\- this isn’t fair on me you know it isn’t  
\- is it that woman  
\- is she bothering you  
\- or have you not been taking your medication, you know you need to sweetie  
\- I bet it is that woman I never trusted her she drinks too much  
\- should I come down I can find good flights  
\- or should I call the police_

Eddie winced. He fired off a simple text: ‘ _I’m sorry love, my phone died. I’ll call you later, everything’s fine. Bev is not bothering me, she’s here with her husband remember?’_ and left it at that. The sickening guilt lay heavy in him, but they didn’t need to know that. They sure as hell didn’t need to _see_ it. It was fine; Eddie was good at pretending.

“Hey,” Richie called out from the hall. “Mr Mime.”

Eddie closed his eyes. _Oh god. Not him. Not more fuel for the guilt pyre he was building._

“Eds, zoning out doesn’t get you outta gym class. Besides you’re like, twenty four years too late to show a note from your mom bailing you out.”

He opened his eyes and Richie was stood in front of him, looking… suspiciously like he was lining up a slap in his direction. He got up and sidestepped him on his quest for shoes and a better jacket, smoothing his hair down as he went. Richie trailed after him like a duckling – a loud, obnoxious duckling. “What’s up, man? Your fiancée wondering if you’re dead yet? Or maybe she thinks you’ve committed mass murder in the woods? You’re better suited to murder, got those tiny murder hands. Plus you look like that Norman Bates motherfucker, so. Already in that club, my friend.”

Eddie bit his lip. He was not going to react, he wasn’t, he wasn’t…

“You’re doing very well at this whole ‘ignoring me’ gig, buddy, but you’ve also cracked a few times already sooooo best to give it up now. Unless you want me to regale you with another recital of that classic ballad you enjoy so much.”

Eddie finished tying his shoes and headed to the door, where his outdoor jacket was hanging on its peg where he’d left it that first day. He was calm. He was serene. He was –

“I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your nerves,” Richie sang in his ear.

Eddie snapped. “I AM IGNORING YOU.”

“I KNOW A SONG THAT’LL GET ON YOUR NERVES, GET ON YOUR NERVES, GET ON YOUR-”

“It was Myra!” Eddie bellowed in Richie’s face. Before he had the chance to react, Eddie swung open the door and headed out to the waiting group below.

“Who the hell is MYRA?” Richie shrieked.

Eddie made a beeline for Ben, who took a step back worriedly. “Uh, is everything…?”

“I’m going to walk with you. Walk fast.”

“Uh.”

“ ** _Ben._** ”

“Sure.”

“This was worth missing the research trip for,” Stan muttered under his breath to Mike, who fought back a snort of laughter as Richie burst out of the lakehouse looking decidedly ruffled but very triumphant. God, Eddie hated his stupid hands and his stupid shoulders and his stupid _face_ …

“Let’s go, Stan,” he announced, and made to leave – until he realised someone had grabbed onto his jacket. He turned around, mentally counting to twenty, but before he could tell Richie to fuck off and leave him alone, an inhaler was thrust in his direction. He eyed it dubiously, then patted himself down. No inhaler. Huh.

“You left it on the side, genius,” Richie said. “You need it, right?”

There was no trace of humour in his expression now. Eddie took the inhaler and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he mumbled. By the size of Richie’s grin, the others would’ve thought he’d won a prize. He didn’t say anything; he just wiggled his brows playfully and obediently fell into step with Bill and Beverly.

“Okay Stan the Man, let’s hustle!” Beverly called out, and Eddie gave a sigh of relief.

Stan looked a bit unsure at being the leader for once, but once they set off he relaxed into the role. The lakehouse was set apart from most civilisation, which meant there was no chance of anyone stumbling across their little expedition. That was for the best, Eddie thought, as no one wanted to watch a fully-grown man struggle through foliage.

They fell into a natural order which meant Stan and Ben kept near the front, and Richie and a slightly wheezing Bill brought up the rear. That left Eddie in the middle, which wasn’t a bad place to be. He still tried to keep pace with Ben, though, which was easier said than done. The guy might not have hiked in years, but he kept in shape. Eddie wasn’t unhealthy, exactly, but it was impossible to be as healthy as someone like Ben.

“Should we slow down?” Ben asked, after Eddie nearly tripped over his own feet.

“I’m…fine…” Eddie replied, as his lungs wailed to the contrary.

“Eddie only has little legs,” Stan chipped in, too busy canvassing the trees to pay them too much attention. “He’s usually propelled forward by hot air and fury.”

“Thanks, Stan.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That was-”

“I know what sarcasm is.”

There were plenty of forest paths snaking into the deep green heart of the trees, but Stan mercifully chose a route that skirted around the border. To Eddie’s untrained eyes, it looked easier – but he couldn’t be sure. Stan walked with an unshakeable confidence, his shirt stretched taut against his surprisingly muscled back. Whether he was scouring mountain ranges for endangered eagles or simply walking a woodland trail, Stan was unequivocally in control. It was good to see him this way, Eddie thought, since he was usually so cutting and quiet.

He was reminded of when they were kids down in the Barrens, fighting through long grass they called jungle. Stan was head of those expeditions, too; even if Bill was the leader, they would all look to Stan when it came to nature. That was His Thing, and they all knew it.

_“Was that REALLY a tiger, Stan?”_

_“Oh sure, Maine Tigers are common in Derry.”_

_“No shit?”_

_“Of course not, numbnuts, it’s a cat.”_

Eddie smiled at the memory, a lightness beginning to rise in him that hadn’t been there before. They were back. They were together. To hell with the rest of it. It was refreshing, to only worry about what was around the next bend and not the real world, the Dreams…

As if he read Eddie’s mind, Ben asked, “Are you really mad about Richie turning up?”

Eddie took a moment to reply, mainly because he wasn’t sure how much breath he had left in him. It was a warm day, and whilst he was sweating through his shirt already, Ben was barely sticky. They really were walking fast. “I’m furious,” he huffed out, inwardly groaning as he caught sight of a steep incline Stan was leading them towards. “Can’t you…tell?”

Ben offered him a shy smile, a kid again for the briefest moment. “Sure, you seem angry, but in between that you look…”

“What?”

“Happier.”

Eddie felt cold dread steal through him. “I’m happier now he’s leaving me alone.”

“Nah, that’s not it.” They started up the slope together, and Eddie’s legs immediately began to complain. Ben managed to carry on without even breaking stride, but Eddie had to slow down or suffer a cardiac arrest. “I think you need all of us.”

Complaints from the others drowned out Eddie’s panicked wheezing.

“Aw c’mon Stan!”

“You’re going to kill me!”

“My hamstrings want to invite you to their funerals!”

“You’re such amateurs!” Stan shouted over his shoulder. He was grinning. “We’re not even going that far!”

“Petition to knock Stan the Man the fuck out and make a break for home?” Richie asked.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “We’re not hitting anyo-”

“Seconded,” Beverly cut in.

“Et tu, Bev?” Stan laughed. “If I tracked poachers in Cambodia for a week, you lot can walk to a lake.”

“Poachers?” Ben stopped walking. “You tracked _poachers_?”

Stan turned to wait at the top of the slope, not a hair out of place. Damn him, Eddie thought. Everyone here seemed in better shape than he was. He needed to work on that. “They were taking parrots for the pet trade,” Stan explained.

“Did you catch them?” Mike asked.

“Yeah.”

“What did you do to them?”

Stan put his hands in his pockets and stared up into the boughs of the trees. “I’m not legally allowed to say.”

Everyone stopped walking. “That’s a fucking terrifying answer, Stan, thanks for sharing,” Bill said bleakly.

“Were the parrots at least grateful?” Beverly asked.

“Actually, they bit me. Patty thought it was hilarious.”

Eddie blinked. “That’s… savage.”

Stan just shrugged and carried on. Eddie stared back down at the others on the slope. “Anyone else know about that?”

“Nope,” Richie said, “and I take it all fucking back, dude, I’m not going near Staniel as long as I shall live.”

Eddie let out a snort but quickly reined it in and carried on up the path, his ears burning with the fondness he didn’t want. At the moment, staring at Richie only offered that faint warmth, the kind where home was out of sight but close. If he stared too long, the Dreams would push to the forefront of his mind, he was sure of it. Ugh. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man for God’s sake, he could control his own fucking biological urges.

Despite his obvious and unhealthy lack of breath, Ben apparently thought it was still appropriate to talk to him. “I don’t reckon we’re that far from where we camped that time,” he mused. “Do you remember?”

Fighting for enough breath to answer, Eddie croaked, “I think so. It was a while ago.” He fumbled for his inhaler and triggered it down his throat. His lungs opened up with a grateful sigh.

He remembered. Of course he did. They still weren’t old enough to drive back then, so Ben’s long-suffering mom had driven them out in her beat up car. It was the last summer he saw Richie in Derry; he moved that winter, before Christmas. Eddie didn’t see him again until college, and that was only briefly. God, that had been a bittersweet trip. The more he looked around, the more he started to remember. It sounded impossible, since forests were forests no matter where you went, but… not this one. Not these towering pines, reaching for the sky like giants. You couldn’t see trees like this, feel them, anywhere else. Besides, Eddie didn’t need to look at the specific spots, the exact trees – he just knew, same as Ben.

There were only four of them left on that trip. Him, Ben, Richie and Mike. The rest had left Derry by then. “We were on our own,” he said aloud.

“It felt like that,” Ben agreed. “It was when Bill went. Felt like I lost a limb when he moved to Bangor.”

Eddie nodded. That had been tough. “Bev leaving really tore you up.”

“Oh, yeah. No surprises there, huh? When she went to live with her aunt I cried for a week.” He paused. “I mean, I think we all did.”

Eddie frowned. That camp trip, he knew Richie was leaving. He’d told him a week or so before, on their own, without the others. “ _I wanted you to know first,”_ Richie had said, and after Eddie stopped shouting and throwing a tantrum he asked why. Richie had just shrugged. “ _Just. Thought you should.”_

Eddie cried. A lot. Perhaps a week. Maybe longer.

Ben sighed, looking off into the forest with a wistful smile. “Wish I could tell that chunky little kid that it would end up okay,” he said. “We’re all here now. Feels good, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, chancing a look over his shoulder at Richie trying to convince Mike to give him a piggyback. Mike was bucking him off at every opportunity, whilst Beverly cackled and tried to do the same with Bill. Eddie cracked a smile, fond and warm. “Yeah, feels good.”

Ben gave him a pat on the shoulder, something so comforting and Ben-like that Eddie gave him a gentle nudge and a smile in return. He hadn’t thought it was a conscious decision, coming here. He didn’t think about the camping trip until Ben had mentioned it back in his room. But now he was beginning to wonder if it was more than just simple coincidence.

“I think the path opens up here,” Stan called out, his eyes bright as he turned to look at them. “Not far now!”

This raised a cheer from everyone, until Beverly called out, “Hey Mike, where did Roy Rogers go?”

They all turned back. Sure enough, there was a Richie Tozier-shaped hole in their party.

“Ugh, he didn’t bolt back to the lakehouse, did he?” Bill sighed.

“Trust me, he won’t have gone looking for the keys,” Beverly said. “He probably found a tree with a butt or something. Got distracted.”

Eddie considered it. That definitely sounded like Richie, but he would definitely try to get someone else to come look with him. He walked back to where the others were congregated, and noted the slightly worried look on Beverly’s face. He asked the first question that came to mind: “Why would Richie want keys?”

Bill and Beverly gave each other a look. It was a look that Eddie recognised, one that meant they knew something he didn’t and it was going to stay that way. “No reason,” Bill said. “Maybe he just, or he could’ve, uh…” He turned and hollered, “RICHIE,” into the bushes nearest him, sending a few birds up into the air.

No answer.

“He’s fucking with us,” Mike determined.

“Or he’s died of exposure,” Stan commented.

Eddie glowered at him. “That’s not funny.”

“Come on, let’s go look for him,” Ben sighed. “He can’t have gone far.”

“No, it’s alright. You guys go on,” Eddie said. “Stan said the lake isn’t far. I’ll find him.”

Bill frowned. “Are you sure?”

“He’s got a sixth Richie sense,” Beverly said sagely. “Eddie’s always been good with directions. And he’s always been good with-”

“Okay, okay, we get the picture,” Eddie said, waving her words away before they sunk in. “Go on. It’s just up that rise, right Stan?”

He nodded, and that was all Eddie needed to know. He headed into the trees before anyone could stop him, his temper beginning to spark. Fucking Richie. What did he have to go wander off for? He was the worst at finding his way to anywhere without specific sets of instructions, so why the hell did he think going off on his own was a good idea?

Brushing through a particularly stubborn bush found him a new path, and he stopped with a frown. Huh. This looked familiar. “Rich?” he called out, but the forest remained silent. His expression soured. God, when he found him he was going to…

Ignore him. That’s what he was going to do. Because that’s what he was _supposed_ to do. Push the thoughts from your mind. Step away. Those were the steps to recovery for everything – but a small voice in the back of his mind poked and prodded at him despite it all. What if he didn’t _want_ recovery – what then?

His frown deepened as he walked. He hadn’t really considered even the concept of another option. “Rich!” he shouted, continuing down this new path. It was well worn by decades of feet tramping along it, though it was now a little overgrown. He was sure it would come out somewhere recognisable.

But he really did know this spot, knew it like a Polaroid tucked away in his mind. Shit, Ben was right; they really had camped near here, all those years ago. He could hear the thin trickle of a brook or river nearby, the same one he demanded they set up camp near so they had a water supply. In case they ran out of water, obviously. Maybe Richie remembered it too.

He set off following that sound, the noise of Bill and Mike and Stan fading into the distance. Every now and again he still heard Beverly’s voice cutting through the trees, shouting insults into the undergrowth for Richie’s benefit. Ben’s calls were a little softer in approach. The old route, lost to time, came back to him as he walked, casting furtive glances left and right in case he missed anything. The directions suddenly came to him, like they’d always been there: along the brook, to the left and upwind. God, he couldn’t believe he remembered.

He met the brook quickly, far thinner and sickly compared to what it had once been. Now, to the left and upwind… but upwind changed all the time, where logically could it have been…

He only got two more steps in when someone barrelled into him from behind with a cry of, “TIGER!”

Eddie shrieked and leapt forward, pinwheeling his arms madly to stop himself from toppling over. He spun around at the loud, obnoxious laugh and glowered. Richie was slapping his thigh, his glasses almost falling over his face as he doubled over with laughter. “That was perfect! Fuckin’ stellar, man! Remember how Stan used to tell us there were tigers? Ha!”

Eddie didn’t hesitate in punching Richie in the arm, turning the laughter to a yowl of pain. “Don’t do that, asshole!” he yelled, smacking him for good measure. “We were worried!”

“Ow, dead arm,” Richie groaned, rubbing the spot.

Eddie punched it again for good measure. “Jesus, you’re like a fucking five year old.”

“Got you good though, Mister ‘I’m Ignoring You’.”

“You vanished, numbnuts! Of course I’m not going to ignore that.”

Richie put a hand over his heart. “Aw, Eds, you do care.”

“Don’t push it.” Eddie looked around him, standing in the same spot he’d walked through decades before. “What – what are you even doing here?”

“Banging your mom. She has a penchant for forestry.”

“Be serious.”

“Aight.” Richie shrugged. Eddie wondered how on earth he was still wearing that gross musty leather jacket in the heat. “Well, this place. We camped around here, right? We were, what, sixteen? Seventeen?”

Ah. So he did remember. “I forgot,” Eddie admitted, “but yeah. Ben told me.”

“Getting sentimental in your old age, Spaghetti.” Richie dodged another punch and offered him a toothy grin. “Found something. C’mon.” Sticking his hands in his jacket pockets, he started walking backwards along the brook. When Eddie started to follow, reluctantly, he beamed and swung back around, his gait lazy and lumbering. Eddie rolled his eyes, muttering savagely under his breath. But yet, here he was. Still following. He was hopeless. _It’s not just Richie who’d come running,_ he thought with a grimace.

He took the opportunity to look at Richie’s shoulders, stupid and hulking. There had been no way of knowing he was going to grow up… well, the way he had. He’d been scrawny, lanky, a kid with coke bottle glasses and slightly oversized teeth. He stayed that way for years, plenty of them, until college happened. Some kind of messed up secondary puberty got to him and by the time they met again, Richie was some sort of nocturnal animal with broad shoulders, and hair along his arms, and a height – where the fuck had the height come from? – and Eddie had to just stand by and deal with that. Richie had somehow grown up and out of himself. Eddie, meanwhile, had done very little of either.

Richie led him past the spot they had camped, far into the forest. It got a little greener, a little darker, and then they came out into a small clearing. Richie danced ahead of him, surprisingly light on his feet and face alive with glee.

“Look, Eds!” he said, pointing ahead of them.

Eddie looked. His eyes narrowed. “Is that-?”

“Yep.”

“The Memory tree?”

“Yep!”

“Holy shit.”

It was a gnarled old tree, bent double like an old crone against the wind. It had looked old when they were younger too; maybe it was one of those ageless trees, the ones who had always been there and probably always would be. Its bark, grey as an elephant, was criss crossed with marks made from all the people who’d passed it by through the years. Some of the marks were pale whispers as the tree grew around them, but others were deep cuts, down into its very heart. As Eddie got closer the tree seemed to shrink, until he realised _he_ had just gotten bigger. It was a little sad to be reminded of that. He remembered the story, though.

“Can’t believe we listened to Mike,” he said, stopping short of it. “All that stuff about putting our names on this thing and never getting forgot. What a joke.”

“I didn’t forget you.”

Eddie darted a look at Richie. He was running a hand along one of the tree’s branches fondly, a faint smile on his face. He was steeped in a memory, one that Eddie might have been part of. “Never forgot doing this, at least. Forgot your dumbasses’ names, but the actual carving them in? Never left the ol’ noggin.”

“Seems like that’s pretty bad magic.”

“Touché. Could’ve been ‘cus I cut my thumb and you nearly had an asthma attack trying to bandage it up.” Richie moved around the tree’s trunk and pointed to a spot with a pleased grin. “There. Come look.”

Eddie walked over to meet him, his eyes following Richie’s finger to the initials carved on the bark:

_R + E + M + B  
(B + S + B)_

“You even put in Bev, Bill and Stan,” he said. “Even though they were gone.”

“Well, I wanted to remember _all_ of you.”

“Huh.”

“We were adorable,” Richie said. “Nerds, idiots who believed in superstitious magic shit, but adorable.”

Eddie reached out and traced the shapes of the letters with his thumb. Richie had carved it with Mike’s switchblade that summer. They’d argued about who got to go first, what order they’d be in. But they were together, him and Richie. R + E. Never to be forgot. Eddie was hit with the secondhand memory of his teenage self, the kid who was still so sheltered and still so terrified of a life without Richie in it. There had been a hope, so savage and pure, that neither of them would forget. That Richie wouldn’t forget, that he wouldn’t move away and find better friends and leave Eddie on his own. There was another, private hope that Richie would one day come back for him. He supposed, in some way, Richie had.

“You should show the others this,” he said, still pressing his hand against the 25 year old wound like he wanted to stem the bleeding.

“Naw,” Richie snorted, “Too embarrassing. No one needs to know this pinnacle of stoic masculinity has a heart. You kidding me?” He paused. “Let’s keep it between us. For now.”

Eddie bit his lip and nodded. Yeah. Just between them. He straightened up and turned to Richie, biting his tongue hard to stop himself getting overwhelmed. “Just us,” he agreed.

He’d forgotten before, sure, but he’d forgotten again. He’d forgot how Richie had been there for him, how his door was always open, how Richie visited him every day when he was ill even if he ended up catching it himself. Richie knew his favourite ice cream flavour, knew he liked standing on the left when they played Street Fighter in the arcade, he knew all the little Eddie-isms just like Eddie knew the Richie-isms. They were best fucking friends, for god’s sake. Just them. Just _us._ Who was he, Eddie Kaspbrak, to deny himself that again? To deny Richie?

Because no matter what, Richie fucking cared about him. He hadn’t forgotten shit. Eddie had.

“We better go find the others,” Richie said. “They’ll think you finally throttled me.” With a smile, absent and thoughtful all at once, he turned to leave.

Eddie surged forward and grabbed the bottom of Richie’s leather jacket. “W-wait.”

Richie turned back. “Yeah?”

Eddie took a deep breath. “My fiancée’s name is Myra Emilia Kaminski,” he blurted out. Richie blinked at him. “She’s a nurse, we met through friends but she also saw me at the clinic for check ups a few times and got curious about me. She watches her weight, but she has a weakness for those Twinkie things, even though they’re gross and about 90% sugar and air.” He just kept going, unable to shut himself up. Richie was sailing away on a tsunami of information, but Eddie couldn’t fucking _stop._ “We’ve been dating seven months, the proposal sort of… happened and I’m happy, I swear I am, I think I am, but I’m terrified, Rich. Never been so fucking scared in my life. I’ve had thirteen panic attacks. Thirteen. I’ve got a notebook.”

When he finished, he dug in his pocket for his inhaler, triggering it like a gun.

Richie just stood there, still blinking at him like he was some sort of mirage, ready to vanish into thin air. “Eds,” he croaked, “why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can’t fucking ignore you, alright?” Eddie snapped, his chest aching at the admission. “I can’t do it. You deserve to know this shit, you deserve to be here too. I care about you too much, I really do, and believe me that’s the biggest pain in the ass.”

Richie didn’t say anything for a little while, buffeted by the strength of Eddie’s outburst. He just stared down at him, mouth slightly open and – red? Was he turning red? Maybe he’d said too much, Eddie thought. Maybe he’d been too vulnerable, left himself too open; he’d expected some sort of sarcastic comment or at least a smug, “I told you so”, but nothing came. It unnerved him. It was like, somehow, he’d broken him.

He waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Dickwad? Anyone in there?”

Richie blinked, shook himself. He looked… dazed. “O-oh. Yeah. Uh. Right.”

He didn’t sound right. Somewhere along their path a curtain had fallen down, and Eddie very much wanted it back up again. “Is that it?” he asked, stepping closer to him. “You got nothing to say?”

Richie flinched away, wide-eyed, but he recovered quicker than before. He fixed a smile on his face, but it lacked the warmth of the last one. “Uh, guess it’s game over then. Cool. Fantastic. Cool-io. Kool and the Gang. Cool-erella.” He looked back up the path. “This way?” He gestured up past the brook and up the slope to where they had been headed in the first place.

Eddie took another step, about to ask him why the hell _winning_ had made so twitchy, when Richie started walking extremely fast in that direction. Sprinting was a better description. “Hey!” Eddie took off after him, practically jogging in an attempt to keep up with Richie’s wildly long strides. “Get back here asshole, I’m not getting lost because of you! RICHIE.”

He left the Memory tree where it was, abandoned in a glade with their letters carved into its thick skin. Maybe the magic wasn’t as bullshit as Eddie thought. Maybe Richie had something on that.

But now it was time to catch the fucker.


	7. Richie Tozier begins to look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's pov: slightly shorter chapter this week, but Richie is Dramatic, he and Eddie have A Moment which sends him into quite the tailspin. Also the Losers are all being terrible enablers because apparently impending marriage is not sacred. 
> 
> cw for nihilistic humour in this chapter, and some homophobic language (in relation to a memory). 
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and share it around! :)

Sure enough, Stan was right. The path, after another snaking turn, opened right out onto the lake shore. The group filed out slowly, Bill stopping to take another few deep breaths. It wasn’t a beach exactly, but there was plenty of ground between them and the lip of the lake itself.

Once Bill straightened up and caught sight of the great stretch of water, he smiled. “Now it feels like home,” he said, tilting his head back with a pleased sigh.

Beverly elected to slump onto the closest rocky outcrop with a sigh of her own. The hike had strangely tired her; the muscles in her legs felt tight and hard, and she knew she would be feeling it once they were back at the lakehouse, but she didn’t mind. It felt good to ache like this sometimes. She liked to think it was down to the heat that penetrated through the trees like daggers rather than her stamina. She liked to think she was pretty good at that.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she took a long drink of lukewarm water and looked out across the lake. It was beautiful. Calm. Serene, even. She sensed more than saw Ben make his way over to her and leaned against him as he sat down. “Eddie sure can pick a nice place,” she mused.

“Yeah,” Ben sighed, resting his head on top of hers despite how hot and disgusting she probably was. One of the many differences between him and… well. She’d stopped comparing them a while ago. “Sweetheart?”

“Mm?”

“Do you think those two will-?” He made a vague hand gesture that made her laugh.

“Who knows,” she answered. “I dunno. Sometimes I think they’ll get there.”

“What about the other times?”

Beverly grinned, unfolding her sunglasses from where she’d tucked them into her blouse. “That is where _we_ come in,” she replied, sliding them on with a curl of her tongue.

Ben laughed, a low quiet sound that Beverly wouldn’t ever get tired of hearing, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “You’re the devil,” he murmured affectionately.

“But you love it,” she pointed out.

“Yeah,” Ben agreed, stealing another kiss, “I do.”

“Hey, Ben! Get over here,” Bill shouted, already halfway along the stretch of shore. “Stan thinks he’s found a turtle shell, help me lift it.”

Ben rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself, and got up. At that specific moment, the bushes about a foot away from the path began to rustle and grunt. “Here they are,” Stan said. “Finally.”

“Ten bucks it’s Eddie,” Beverly said, stretching herself out on the rock. Her spine popped pleasantly.

“Ten it’s Richie,” Mike shouted back.

“Got yourself a deal, Hanlon.”

Beverly turned around in time to see that, unfortunately, it was Richie. He burst out of the forest like it had given birth to him, a shower of twigs and leaves falling behind him as he staggered clear of the undergrowth. Once he was out he just kept walking, an oddly vacant expression on his face. Beverly frowned. Well. Something was up. 

“There you are!” Mike called out, causing Richie to stop in his tracks. “You look like a Yeti, man, hope you didn’t scare any campers!” When he got no response, he frowned. “Did you, uh, see Eddie?”

Richie reminded Beverly of a deer caught in headlights. “Uh huh,” he replied, his voice strained and tiny, and he carried on walking.

Beverly moved back to her previous spot, sunning herself like a lizard. From what she could hear, it sounded like Richie was making a beeline for her but she didn’t move. She didn’t even look up, or open her eyes behind her sunglasses. “You owe me ten bucks, Tozier,” she said, without moving an inch.

“Alright. You can take it out of my will.” The sound of something heavy dropping to the floor signified his leather jacket was now off. “And keep my phone, don’t read my messages.”

Beverly sighed. “What are you doing, Trashmouth?” she asked as she sensed him almost above her.

“Gonna walk into the lake,” he said mildly.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Too gay.”

She slid her glasses down her nose to peer up at him. He still seemed dazed. _The lights are on, nobody’s home_ , she thought. “Elaborate?” she pressed him.

“Eddie said he cares about me and I can’t handle that so I just said ‘cool’ like a fuckin’ dudebro and walked away.”

Beverly raised a brow at him, then slid her sunglasses back on. “Fair enough. Die with honour, Virginia Woolf.”

Richie kept walking.

He was on fire. No, seriously. He might as well have fucking been. He felt like there was an inferno trapped inside him, the way you saw in some trees after a forest fire – and Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie _fucking_ Kaspbrak, was the one who struck the match. Of course it was.

_“I can’t fucking ignore you.”_

_“I care about you too much.”_

_“I care about you.”_

_“Care about you.”_

_“Care.”_

God, the words were on a spin cycle in his mind, twirling and twisting as he strode as fast as he could to the waiting water. If he had the choice he would be walking into a fucking volcano right now but hey, Maine had lakes. He took what he could get. Eddie’s furious voice was still coming for him, still tracking him down like a hunting dog, but he couldn’t hear it. All he heard was, _“I care about you”,_ and how much that unravelled him. He knew Eddie cared, obviously. But he’d never said it with such ferocity, with such violence that Richie knew veiled honesty in Eddie. And he was supposed to deal with that shit? Walk around, go about his daily life, knowing that Eddie Kaspbrak _cared too much about him_?

Nope. Not happening.

Off he went. To the lake. It was a mercy.

_He meant it in a friend way, you fucking clod,_ he told himself. It didn’t mean anything, not the way he wanted it to at least. And the way he’d touched that tree, caressed those marks and lingered on the ‘R + E’ – that meant nothing too. It had to. Else this was gonna get so much more complicated.

Mike and Bill were watching him with some interest as he carried on heading towards the lake, stopping only to take off his shoes and socks. He may have been dramatic as fuck but he wasn’t an animal, the shoes were expensive. And who the hell goes to oblivion in _socks_? The Almighty would just have to deal with his weird feet. He made them, after all.

“What you doing, Rich?” Bill asked.

“Being dramatic,” Stan answered, still trying to manoeuvre whatever it was they had found. “He does this. He pretended to walk into traffic last time I brought up his love life in LA.”

“Bye to you too, Stan.”

“Send my regards to Gandhi.”

He reached the water, wincing at how cold it actually was. Ugh. Maybe he could’ve chosen a better place to Cause A Scene. Whilst he hesitated, he looked back to see Eddie exploding out of the forest about a foot away from the Richie-shaped gap he’d left. He had cuts and scratches on his face and hands from where he’d clearly run face first into the bushes after him, twigs tangled in hair that was no longer slicked back into place. He was gasping for breath, his whole upper body heaving, and he looked absolutely incandescent with rage. He saw Richie immediately.

“Oh, what the fuck is he doing?” Eddie asked Beverly as he staggered towards her.

“He’s committing himself to the waves,” she replied calmly.

“No he fucking isn’t.” Eddie stared at him again, still gasping for breath. He pointed wordlessly at him, his hand shaking in fury or fatigue, Richie wasn’t sure.

Equally silent, he pointed at himself quizzically.

“You stay right the fuck there.” Taking a single hit of his inhaler, he dropped it in Beverly’s lap and took off _sprinting._

_Oh **fuck**_.

Richie let out a shriek of terror and started off running along the lake’s edge, kicking up a spray of water as he went. “Get back here!” Eddie hollered after him, foregoing the shoes-and-sock shedding and just straight up jumping into the water, his trousers automatically soaking. “You fucker, get back here right now or I swear to God-”

“Eduardo, no!”

“That’s not my name, dipshit!”

“Eddie, please, I got a stitch.”

“You’ll have more than that when I’m done with you, you dick!”

“Gotta catch me first!”

“OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO SHOVE YOUR SHOES SO FAR UP YOUR ASS.”

“TRY ME BITCH.”

Oh shit, he was running out of shore. He skidded to a halt and swerved around, missing Eddie’s grabbing hands by inches as he tore back across the shoreline. Eddie was going too fast to turn right away, apparently, since he kept going for a foot or so before he managed to set off after him again, surprisingly fast for a little guy. Richie hadn’t been joking; he really did have cramp bad in his side. He was definitely not a runner; he should have taken up those free gym sessions his manager plied him with.

“Richie, I’m going to kill you!”

That sounded close. “Oh, Eds, is that a promise?!” Richie yelled over his shoulder. “I crave the sweet release of death!”

“Shut up you fucking ape, and stop running!”

“NEVER.”

It turned out that never came a lot quicker than Richie expected. Eddie gained on him, and before he knew it Eddie launched himself at him, knocking into his back and sending them both sprawling with a final screech from Richie. The ground rose up to greet him a little too familiarly, the teeth of the shale biting into his hands and the cold of the water reaching up like a slap in the face. Richie rolled over onto his back with a groan, and found his arms forced up above his head and Eddie bearing down on him. Richie blinked. Eddie was – he was pinning him down was what he was doing. Pinning. Him. Down.

_Oh fuck **me**_.

Eddie’s legs were either side of his waist and he was snarling into his face, feral and angry and just a little triumphant. Essentially, very Eddie. Panting for breath, he hissed, “Would you fucking _stop_?” in a command that shot a wake up call directly to Richie’s dick, cold water or not.

He just stared up at him, willing his mouth to work. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh.

“What the fuck, man, you don’t just up and leave like that,” Eddie ranted, blissfully unaware of how little Richie was listening to him. “Seriously. I got all sensitive and shit and told you all that shit about Myra and you got nothing to say?”

Ah yes, Myra. That was a boner killer if ever he heard one. Richie tried to make a noise that sounded like ‘Eddie’ but then Eddie’s hands flexed around his wrists and squeezed every so gently, so he naturally failed. Eddie carried on regardless.

“Look, asshole, you ruined my shirt, this was so expensive, I got it from fucking Armani and not in the sale either, recommended retail price! And I like nature, but I don’t like getting fucking slapped in the face by it and there could be poison ivy in that shit and I didn’t even check so if I die it’s all your fault and I’ll sue you for everything you have! And you didn’t even say anything about Myra, dude, why didn’t you say anything why did you just fucking run off on me like I just told you I was dying or some shit I can’t believe you you’re such a-”

“You care about me,” Richie said, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Eddie froze. “What?” His hands loosened their grip on him, but Richie didn’t move. He knew Eddie would notice their position sooner or later, once the rage had died down and he reined his words in. Then he would scramble away and splutter out some sort of dumb apology, and Richie would have to lie there and say it was nothing when, in reality…

Well, it was probably the closest thing he was ever gonna get.

So yeah, he laid there a little longer. Sue him. He also maybe smiled a little. Just a little. “You… you care about me.” He wiggled his fingers in Eddie’s loose grip. “You said it.”

The anger fled from Eddie steadily, like shedding a skin. He blinked it away first, shutting his eyes tight before opening them again. He looked – nervous. “W-well, yeah. ‘Course I do, you moron,” he muttered, avoiding his eye. “I also said you’re annoying.”

“Well I already knew that.” Richie stared up at him, at his untidy hair and soaking wet clothes, and determined that this was more his Eddie than the other had been. That realisation made him brave. He gulped and said, softer, “I wasn’t too sure about the other part.”

“What do you mean, why do you think I- oh.”

“Yeah,” Richie said, ducking his head against his chest. “Oh.”

Eddie released his wrists and sat up, his eyes getting wider. “Richie, I-”

“For what it’s worth,” Richie added, propping himself up on his elbows, “I care about you too, dumbass.” Eddie leaned away, but that was okay. Richie expected that. What he didn’t expect was the way Eddie had leaned _in_. Just for a moment. It was an inch, barely an inch – but it was enough. Richie was used to noticing things like that.

And then Eddie went rigid, like he realised what he was doing. He backed off completely, rolling away from him and lying flat on his back in the shallows, his stomach rising and falling heavily. He put a hand to his face and groaned. “Ugh, fuck, dude, don’t do that.”

“What?” Richie was still dazed, lying there in an inch of water. Next to Eddie. Huh. He could get used to it.

“Be… sappy.”

“I called you a dumbass,” Richie pointed out, grinning at Eddie’s sour expression.

“Shut up, you know what I mean.” Eddie dropped his hand to the ground and stared hard at Richie. Oof. “It’ll give me an ulcer,” he said, completely stone-faced. Richie snorted out a laugh, but it quickly turned to splutters when Eddie splashed him in the face.

He sat up spitting out lake water, his glasses wonky. “Hey, hey! No drowning! I thought you didn’t want that!” he complained.

“Nihilistic humour doesn’t suit you, Rich. Stick to boob jokes.” Eddie splashed him again, but mercifully aimed below his face as he readjusted his glasses. That would have been a cheap shot. “Besides, if anyone gets to kill you, it’s me.”

“Spoken like a true serial killer, Eds, thanks for that memo.”

He waited for another inevitable splash, but it didn’t happen. Eddie was glaring at him, but it slowly creased into something else. He let out a few warning titters, and then burst out laughing. He grabbed for his ribs as he tilted his head to the sky and cackled at it, like a hyena. Eddie’s laughter was rare and well-deserved; it was like sighting a white fucking whale when he laughed like this, so freely and wildly. Like no one was watching.

Richie felt his own laughter bubbling up to the surface. A thought floated to the surface, clear enough to assemble itself into a sentence instead of just that long squashed, downtrodden feeling.

_I love him. I’m in love with him. I was in love with him when we were kids and I’m still in love with him now._

His laughter stuck in his throat. Huh. That was new. Better not to dwell on _that_ thing. Nothing was going to spoil the sight of his best friend in the whole fucking world, led flat out on a lakebed busting a gut about his lukewarm jokes. His clothes really were ruined, and the foliage in his hair really was tangled with very little chance of escape, but Eddie didn’t seem to care.

Richie shook his head, another laugh spilling free as he got to his feet slowly. “C’mon Chuckles,” he said, taking Eddie’s hand and pulling him upright. “You’ll catch your – oof!”

Eddie lost his footing with the strength of Richie’s pull and fell into him. For the whisper of a moment, Eddie’s head was on his chest, just under his chin, and Richie was on fire again. Then he jumped back, the laugh gone but the smile still thankfully there – though it had gotten a hell of a lot smaller.

_Stop it,_ Richie reminded himself. _Cut it the fuck out, he’s talking to you, that’s it, don’t be greedy. Don’t push._

The little animal inside him wailed.

“So, which are you?” he asked, batting everything away from the forefront of his mind. Eddie raised an eyebrow in silent question. “The Zodiac Killer, the Black Dahlia or the Mad Axeman of New Orleans?”

Eddie let out a snort of laughter and gave him a playful shove. “Oh my god, shut up.”

They made their way back over to where the others were crowded, wading a little thanks to their disgustingly wet clothes. Seemed they had struck up quite an audience. Richie hesitated. God, had he been obvious? Had that looked like attempted murder, or basking in Eddie’s glow like a lovesick fucking moron? “Alright, fellas, party’s over,” he called out. “No casualties here!”

“Decided against a watery end, then?” Stan asked with a smirk as they neared them.

“Too cold,” he answered primly. “Need me a warm death.”

“Is ‘death by Eddie’ considered warm?” Bill mused.

Richie threw a shoe at him. Eddie threw the other.

“Anyway, now that’s out of the way,” Mike clapped his hands and rubbed them together, grinning. “Eddie, you’re pretty strong.”

Eddie blinked. “That’s news to me, but go on.”

“I found a couple boats over by the turn in the shore, help me and Stan turn ‘em over and get ‘em into the water?”

Eddie didn’t seem sure. “Don’t you have Ben for that?”

“Pulled a muscle,” Ben smiled sheepishly. “Gotta sit it out, man.”

“Why haven’t you asked me?” Bill questioned, indignant.

“Hon, we all love you,” Beverly said, speaking to the air as she refused to move, “but you are a weed.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that.”

“Fine!” Eddie threw up his hands. “I’ll come help, Jesus.”

“Aw, don’t worry Eds!” Richie shouted after him. “You go play with the big boys, get those scrawny muscles working, you scrappy dog you!” A single middle finger was given in response as he walked away, tugging Bill along too for an ‘extra body’.

When Richie turned back to Beverly, she was sat up and watching him. She and Ben were wearing matching smirks. “A scrappy dog,” she repeated gleefully.

Richie sensed the flush rising in his cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Back then, before he came after you…” Beverly stuck her tongue between her teeth and wiggled her eyebrows at him. “You admitted it.”

He went rigid. “Admitted what?” God, the fire just wasn’t going to leave him alone today, was it? It ignited again, roaring with approval. He looked over his shoulder to check Eddie wasn’t in earshot. He regretted it immediately.

Eddie was talking to Bill, and he was smiling. His smile was the crooked kind, like he wasn’t sure how to do it. He’d bought that smile on wholesale, paraded it around like it always belonged to him – but they all knew better. Richie knew better. Still, a second-hand smile was better than no smile at all. Eddie caught his eye and the smile slipped into the echo of one he’d seen before. One that made him look younger. One that dimpled his cheeks like crazy. Then he remembered himself and focused back on whatever Bill was rambling on about.

“Do you really need me to say it?” Beverly asked.

Richie whirled back around. “There’s nothing to admit,” he said snippily, propping himself beside her with an attempt at polite confusion. That was what he attempted, at least – by Beverly’s face, she wasn’t buying it. Neither was Ben.

“Oh boy, Richie,” he sighed. “Have you always been like this?”

Richie ignored him; what he couldn’t ignore, however, was Beverly leaning in and singing softly in his ear, “You’re gay for Eddieeeee.”

He jerked his head away and nearly lost his balance against the rock. “What is this, elementary school?” he hissed, a chill rushing through him and turning all that heat into something sharp and cold. Something that could be driven right through him if he wasn’t careful, if he looked the wrong way or said the wrong thing. He brushed it away vaguely, but all it did was circle him, biding its time.

“You tell me, Trashmouth,” Beverly replied. “That was the biggest pigtail-pulling stunt I’ve seen _since_ elementary school.”

Richie glowered at her. “Okay, back to the lake I go.” He made to get up, but with a “Nooo!” Ben and Bev both grabbed him. He pressed himself back against the rock with a whine. “Bev, let me DIE.”

“Richie Tozier, if you go anywhere near that lake Ben’ll tackle you.” She rested her head on his shoulder and shot him a warning look. “I’ve trained him well.”

Richie eyed Ben, who gave a helpless shrug. Ugh. Hopeless. “Rich, it’s fine,” he said. “You looked…”

“Don’t tell me how I looked, Haystack,” Richie said, pained. Then he paused. “You didn’t even pull a fucking muscle, did you? You just stayed behind to ambush me.”

Ben smiled. Guilty as charged, apparently. “Well maybe I just want to hang out with you, Trashmouth. Haven’t had much of a chance yet.”

“Yeah, you’ve been too far up Eddie’s ass.” Ben’s face fell, and Richie groaned. “Argh, I’m sorry, alright? I can’t handle people being nice to me. I melt, like the wicked witch of the west.”

“Lucky Eddie is only nice to you 20% of the time,” Ben pointed out.

Richie slid his eyes shut and groaned. “Yeah, go figure.” He fought the cold, sickening feeling down again, thawing out his insides as he went. It was a learning curve, discovering that he was allowed to feel things. He’d always _felt –_ he wasn’t emotionally stunted or never got hugged as a child – but it wasn’t that kind of feel.

‘ _Disgusting pervert.’_

_‘Vile little homo.’_

Richie smacked the heel of his hand to his face, trying to chase out the thug that was still there, still fucking there, reminding him who he was. When he opened his eyes Beverly wasn’t smirking anymore. “Ah, shit, sorry,” he said, smacking his head again, grinding his palm into his forehead. “Just… gimme a minute.”

Beverly didn’t give him a minute. He felt her hand, smoothing its way up his arm, and the sneers got quieter in his head. “You’re okay,” she said. “We were kidding around.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t. You know I wasn’t, Bev, you – you know.”

“I know,” she agreed, still stroking his arm. It felt good. Stable.

He took a deep breath, eyes scrunched tight, and opened them. Ben had taken his place on his other side, and Richie couldn’t help folding into him too as an arm came around his shoulders. “Bowers?” Ben asked softly.

Richie nodded. He’d told them all about the day Henry and his cronies chased him out of the arcade, what they said, and how it had remained cut into him like Ben’s scars. Incidentally, it was the same day he came out – easily the worst experience of his life, minus the bullying. It wasn’t because of them; it would never be them, they all understood, they all loved him for who he was and not who he fucked. Bev had already known. He’d told her the day she’d told him she was going to leave her husband. He figured it was a fair trade, a secret for a promise. He had a feeling she’d known since they were sixteen, but didn’t like to say. The others hadn’t known at all, he’d been sure of that; but they were so good to him when he did admit it, wrapping him in a hug so tight he started bawling like an actress. No, that wasn’t why it was the worst.

It was because he found out the awful truth – that there was no reset button. He couldn’t go back and change the way he lived now he felt semi-brave enough. He also realised that this was just the beginning; he wasn’t less scared, or any stronger. Unfortunately, he was still very much him – just a little emotionally lighter. There would always be coming outs; he’d have to do it every fucking time he got a new manager or a new gig or just met someone new. It wasn’t gonna stop just because he said, “I’m gay,” to a room of his old school friends. Life didn’t work like that. And that was fucking hard.

“I wish I was over it,” he said, quietly.

“These things take time.” Ben squeezed his shoulder gently. “Gotta give ‘em that time, Rich. Took me years, and that was with a therapist.”

“Sure.” He swallowed painfully. “This is… all fucking new to me. You gotta treat me gentle.”

“Do the married men you keep sleeping with treat you gentle?” Bev asked.

“Beep beep, _Beverly_ ,” Richie said. “And no one’s perfect, hop off my dick.”

“Was never on it, honey.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ wish.”

She grinned and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now, that sounds like my Trashmouth disaster.”

Richie wrinkled his nose. “Charming.” He looked back over to where Eddie had apparently taken over from Mike and was now barking orders to everyone. As he folded his arms, Richie noted the muscle that bulged there. He hadn’t noticed it before. Eds had been working out. He smiled. Bless. “Okay, maybe I am a disaster, but do you see this shit?” he gestured at Eddie.

“I see Eddie,” Ben said.

“I also see Eddie,” Beverly admitted, “but I also see the way you look at him.”

“Cute, but no dice, Marsh. That’s not what I’m getting at, look.” He gestured again. “He looks different, right?”

“He’s covered in mud and soaking wet?”

“He’s more relaxed,” Ben said, following Richie’s gaze. “He’s not walking around like he’s waiting for a gun to go off anymore.”

“You’re right.” Beverly chewed her lip as she watched them all try and fail to lift one of the boats up, and Eddie’s angry squawking and flapping. “I know he didn’t talk to you, Richie, but he barely spoke to any of us either before this. He was shutting down completely, like… like he was trying to let us down gently. When he did reply, it was one word answers. Now, he… well, he’s…”

“Loud, angry and talking a mile a minute?” Ben tried.

“Exactly.” Beverly smiled. “You know Rich, like it or not you’re good for him.” Eddie was taking his place at the side of the boat’s hull. He started to lift it, and this time it flipped over. A cheer of triumph rose up between them all. “He’s the old Eddie again.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Richie said. Beverly and Ben looked to him as he said, “Maybe… maybe he needs to learn how to be a kid again.”

“Or he needs you,” Beverly pressed.

“Excuse you, my good Beaverly, may I remind you he isn’t fucking in love with me and he’s marrying a woman in July?”

She pursed her lips and didn’t answer. That was somehow worse, because it meant it gave Richie the time to think about it. The whole ‘getting married’ thing. He hadn’t even entertained the thought of it, not since Bill had told him. But now he did; the idea of stepping over the threshold of a church without bursting into flames, of sitting down in those uncomfortable pews and watching Eddie stand at the front, waiting for Myra Emilia Kaminski with that nervousness that made his foot bounce up and down when he wasn’t paying enough attention. God, what if Eddie asked him to be up there with him? He would have to stand there too, in front of a priest who would probably blast him with his laser vision for being a Gay Man in a Church. But worse than that, he would have to stand by and watch Eddie get married to Myra Emilia Kaminski and smile and be happy when inside, deep inside, he would be…

Well, he wasn’t sure what he’d be. Not fucking good, that was for sure.

Beverly was making a face. Uh oh. He didn’t like it when she made _that_ face. He rolled his eyes. “Oh, god, what?”

“Just.” She shrugged. “It’s not exactly set in stone. Accidents happen.”

Richie and Ben gaped at her. “Are all of my friends fucking psychopaths?” Richie asked.

“It was a joke, Rich.”

“Uh huh, sure. Jesus, Bev.” Richie turned to look at Ben. “Hey man, you have to _sleep_ with this woman at night, do you have a baseball bat in your room? If not you should probably get one.”

A cigarette was suddenly thrust in his direction. He eyed it dubiously, but Beverly shook it at him tauntingly. “To shut you up.”

“What happened to ‘beep beep’?”

“This is a stronger situation than ‘beep beep’.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He took it like it was a life ring being tossed his way, leaning into her as she lit them up.

It was time for Ben to make a face at them. “You two are _so_ the bad kids who snuck out of class to smoke behind the bike sheds.”

“Naw man, we wished we were that cool,” Richie muttered around his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs blissfully. He sure as hell had his vices, but they did the job. He could feel himself settling, the tension easing out of him in a steady rush; with every drag he took, the calmer he got. He had to stop relying on shit like this, but then again if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

“You’re the worst influences on each other,” Ben added, despite the smile he sported. “You haven’t smoked in months, Bev.”

“What can I say,” she said, trapping the cigarette between her fingers as she blew out a plume of smoke. “These are my ‘Richie’s having a gay crisis’ reserves.”

Richie shrugged, beaten. He couldn’t exactly argue with that. “Nice to know you care, Bev,” he commented. “Got anything else in the Richie Tozier first aid kit?”

“A bottle of cheap whiskey with your name on it?”

“You sure know how to make a lady feel special.”

Ben nudged him in the shoulder and nodded back towards the shore. “Looks like the triumphant heroes are back.”

Sure enough, both boats were now tipped over the right way, and as Mike and Stan started to push the first one into the lake Bill and Eddie were heading back their way. They looked pretty pleased with themselves, especially Eddie; somewhere down the line he’d managed to lose his jacket, so Richie was tortured with the sight of his grubby and mud-smeared polo shirt. It had been white once, but never again. But Eddie wasn’t cringing about it, or complaining loudly that he would never get the stains out and he might get infected with jungle fever or something. No, he was just walking next to Bill, listening intently to him as he talked, and he didn’t look like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He’d forgotten about the dirt.

Shit, Richie had hoped he just liked the look of Clean Eddie, but apparently not. Seemed as though he liked every aspect of Eddie. Like he hadn’t known _that_ before, god he had to get over himself.

Richie looked at other men. He looked a lot. Not in a weird way (‘ _Disgusting little perv!’_ ) but just… objectively. On the sly. Quick, so no one could notice. He was allowed to look, it was a free fucking country, but he still wasn’t sure what he’d do if he caught someone staring back. The whole ‘married men’ thing was part of that; he didn’t have to look, and neither did they. It was just an instinct, something they did and got out of their systems and off they could go, back to Janice and the kids. And back Richie would go, to his apartment and his late night voicemails to Eddie’s dead phone. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but it was something. But when had he started wanting that connection, wanting that gaze to be held? Well, he guessed it had always been Eddie. When they were younger, when he was even more scared and dumb than he was at forty, and now it was back with a fucking vengeance.

He took another long drag of his cigarette and made smoke rings up into the sky again. Beverly grinned and tried to blow her smoke through them.

“Are you two fucking _smoking_ right now?”

Both of them focused back on Eddie. He had stopped in front of them and looked nothing short of thunderstruck. Richie’s cigarette drooped down in his mouth, but he looked wide-eyed to Beverly for help. She took hers out of her mouth and smiled innocently in Eddie’s direction. “Want some?”

It was entirely the wrong thing to say, and she knew that. But it was worth it to see Eddie turn a peculiar shade of purple. Richie braced himself for the onslaught, and when it came-

“Cigarettes give you fucking cancer, guys! It’ll coagulate in your lungs and clog them up so you can’t breathe and then you get a smoker’s cough and then it’s cancer and you die do you want to die young is that it huh I don’t believe you two you think you’re such rebels with your biker jackets and your-”

Richie shared a look with Beverly. She raised her brows at him. Richie looked back to Eddie, smiling ever so slightly.

“- can’t even express in words how angry I am right now no wonder you can’t run fast fucking hell I thought you’d quit and you clearly fell off the wagon god did you know it’s like a gateway drug it’s just like weed they don’t tell you it is but nicotine is just as dangerous as-”

“You want me to quit for real?” Richie asked.

Eddie stopped talking. He dropped his hands down from where he’d been waving them above his head. “Yes.” It came out a little weak, almost a question but not quite.

Richie stared at him, at the earnest fucking eyes and the tight way his mouth was drawn together. He shrugged and took the cigarette out of his mouth, and without hesitation dropped it to the floor and stomped on it. “Alright.”

Eddie blinked at him. “Alright? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Eddie’s eyes went to the crushed cigarette, still smoking pitifully, then to Richie’s face, then back again. “Oh.”

“Anyway,” Bill cut in, looking from Richie to Eddie and back again, “we got the boats all sorted. Stan and Mike think they’re seaworthy, which I don’t one hundred percent trust but they’re taking them out on the lake anyway.” He smiled. “Up for it?”

Richie grinned toothily. “You wanna set sail, Captain Eds?”

Eddie seemed unsure. His teeth worried away at his lip as he glanced at the lake, so still it looked like glass. “Uh, I… I dunno about that, I can’t remember the last time I went on a boat.”

Richie knew it was highly unlikely Eddie would have _ever_ gone on a boat that wasn’t certified sound by some sort of expert. It was practicality. He was careful about _everything._ But there was a fear there too, settled under the surface he was trying not to show. But Richie saw it. He knew what to look for, after all. It had been placed there by his mom a long time ago, ever since Eddie was capable of coherent thought, and even though he fought against it quite a bit it still lingered, malignant. Well. That was going to fucking change.

“It’s okay,” he said, patting Eddie on the shoulder as he passed, “I’ll show you.”

He could sense everyone else’s eyes on him as he set off towards the boats, like always – but this time, he didn’t feel like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. This time, he felt okay with being seen – if only for a little while.


	8. Eddie Kaspbrak finds himself falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's pov: they go on a boat trip, Eddie has quite a few musings and realises that lakes might not be so bad after all. Or maybe they're really, really bad.
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and share it around! :)

It turned out that Richie didn’t have the slightest idea about boats. At least, that was what Eddie could quite reasonably assume after getting five metres too late from the shore. “We’ve got to row in the same direction!” he shouted as their pitiful vessel bobbed along the now-choppy water. “You can’t just wiggle the oars about and magically get to where you want to go!”

“Excuse me, who is the captain of this fine cruiser?”

“I’m staging a mutiny.”

“Well you’re going overboard!”

“I am in Hell,” Mike groaned.

The boats were large enough to fit four people inside, and whilst Stan, Bill, Beverly and Ben had taken the first boat, Mike had drawn the short straw to go with Eddie and Richie in theirs. Eddie tried not to be offended at the theatrical sighs of relief from the others, but when Bill explained that he and Richie needed adult supervision in case they got into some sort of accident, Eddie got it. They did need someone closer to an adult. And Richie did make him feel sort of insane half the time. Then again, after the stunt in the water Eddie was beginning to wonder if it was a different kind of insanity.

Seriously, that shit was close – too damn close. And now he knew what Richie’s washing powder smelled like. He’d felt the softness of a chest he always thought he’d bruise on. If he had thought being around Richie, being a friend to him, was going to stave off the dreams running loose and wild in his head, well – he was sorely mistaken.

Whatever his Unconscious wanted to throw at him, however, it didn’t change the fact that Richie was terrible at trying to row a fucking boat.

“Let Mike take over at the front!” Eddie protested. “You know, someone who actually knows what he’s doing!”

“Fuck you, we’re fine!”

“We are NOT fine!”

Richie was sat at the head of the boat facing Eddie and Mike – his first mistake. He did have a set of oars, but he might as well have had pool noodles in each hand for how helpful he was being with them. He seemed far more comfortable hollering “ROW” at frequent intervals and bringing down his oars hard on the surface of the lake to splash Eddie and make the boat tilt first one way, then another. Eddie started to find the ‘sort of accident’ idea quite appealing.

Mike, thankfully, was being far more helpful. “It’s not just him, man, you gotta lean the opposite way to where the oars are headed,” he instructed Eddie, shifting closer to show him. His hands came over Eddie’s and took the weight of the oars as he guided them both backwards. “As the oars come through the water, you go back, see? You use your body weight to help them cut through.”

Eddie frowned, noting the sudden difference in the movement. It did feel like it moved easier. “Sure. Okay.” He winced. “Shit, how did you fish like this when you were twelve, man? My arms are killing me already.”

“You remember how ripped he was as a twelve year old?” Richie cut in. “He’s a farm boy, they’re born stacked. It’s like the law or some shit.”

“Actually,” Mike said, thankfully choosing to ignore Richie completely, “it’s probably hurting so much because you’re diving the oars in pretty deep. Keep them shallow and you’ll still get places, but it won’t put so much of a strain on you.”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder at him. “But it still hurts?”

“Well, yeah.” Mike flashed a smile at him. “C’mon, Eds, it’s good for you. Biceps, forearms, core.”

Eddie huffed out a breath, but sure enough the shallow strokes propelled them through the water a lot more effectively than the ones he’d been doing before. It felt less like he was trying to carve through solid marble and more like pushing through treacle. It was an improvement, at least. “I was going to start running this holiday, not take on a full body workout,” he complained as Mike released him. He felt the workload increase with his loss, and gritted his teeth. No wonder champion rowers had such broad shoulders; all the better to hang their muscle onto.

“Well, I dunno man. You look like you’ve been working out recently. You telling me you’re not?”

Eddie’s sceptical snort was so strong he nearly lost one of the oars. “Not really,” he said. It was half true; he started going to the gym close to his work once or twice a week, but he couldn’t tell anyone what he did there. He didn’t even know. He just zoned out for a couple hours before driving home to Myra. She always complained that he picked the days she was in the house to do it. He wasn’t quite sure why he lied to her and said he had a gym buddy who could only do those days. “I’m not doing enough to notice,” he added.

“I can see the difference, in your arms especially,” Mike said, matter-of-factly. “Besides, you were strong enough to tip the boats over.”

Eddie ducked his head down, focusing on his new rowing technique instead of the way his cheeks were burning. He was glad Mike couldn’t see him. He didn’t know why he was getting so worked up and uncomfortable about it; Mike was paying him a compliment, for crying out loud. Nothing to be embarrassed about. When he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a one of those; especially about the way he looked. Myra always gave him ‘pointers’ for improvement that he often listened to, but…

“I didn’t do all that much,” he muttered, keeping his head down as he answered. “You and Stan and Bill helped. We did it together.”

“You’re too modest. Hey, Richie!” Mike called above his head, making him jump, “You’ve got eyes. Tell Eddie he has good arm muscles.”

Eddie’s attention snapped to the front of the boat. Fuck. How had he forgotten Richie could see him? Probably because he hadn’t been talking.

Well, Richie definitely wasn’t talking now. He wasn’t even looking at him; he was half squinting, half scowling at a point just behind him. Mike? No, the sun was probably in his eyes. That was most likely. Yeah. After a moment Richie’s gaze shifted, and their eyes met. Richie’s scowl softened. “You… have arm muscles, Eds,” he said, shrugging. “All the relevant ones. Even the stringy bits.”

Eddie sputtered out a laugh, which took him by surprise. “Thanks, dickwad. You too.”

Richie shrugged again, but there was a small smile on his face. He’d noticed Eddie’s discomfort – Eddie knew he had. The others all joked about him having a Richie sense, but there were times he thought Richie had a sense all his own. He was – well, he was grateful.

“Come on, slowpokes!” Beverly yelled ahead of them, her hair blowing around so much it looked like fire. “Put your backs into it!”

“We would be going faster if Richie actually used the oars properly!” Eddie shouted back.

“As I am in a place of power, I reject the toil of the common labourer,” Richie announced proudly.

“That,” Eddie said, “is bullshit.”

“Hate the sin, not the sinner, Spagheds. Stick it to the Man.”

“You’re even facing the wrong direction, moron. Get up and turn around.”

Richie raised a brow. “Do you really want me to do that, Eds?”

Granted, Eddie hadn’t thought it through all that much. He knew the boat was too small to move around in. He knew they probably should have made him move before they set off from the shore. He also knew that Richie loved to mess with him. He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when Richie shot up like he’d been called in front of the class and said, “okay,” with an innocent smile on his face. “Wouldn’t wanna… rock the boat, now would I?”

The boat lurched, and Eddie’s heart shot up into his mouth. “Stop stop stop don’t do that!”

“You said you wanted me to turn around, so I am!”

“I didn’t think it through okay you know I didn’t stop DOING THAT.”

“What, this?” With a shit-eating grin, he wobbled himself. The boat wobbled with him.

“YES FUCKING STOP.” 

Richie stuck his tongue between his teeth, the same way Beverly did when she was teasing them. “Not got your sea legs yet, eh Eds?”

Eddie mimed hitting him over the head with one of the oars. Richie snickered but sat down, another highly exaggerated movement causing the boat to dip to the right. Eddie called him an asshole and aimed a kick at his back, but the boat’s responding creak made him think twice about doing it again. He could kick Richie’s ass when they were back on solid ground.

As the frantic attempts to row slowed, Eddie brought himself back to the fact that he was very much on the water. The lake was larger than he expected; from the glimpses of it he’d caught back at the lakehouse, he assumed it was one of those fishing lakes that dotted Maine like raindrops, relatively small with a handful of interesting fish to keep it a good spot for locals and visitors. This one was huge, and a deep blue that shone like a precious stone in the bright sunlight of the day.

As their boat glided over to its partner, Eddie let go of the oars completely (after putting them in the right place and locking them down securely) and with an ounce of hesitation dipped a hand into the rippling current they had made. It was colder than the water he’d splashed Richie with in the shallows, but it was fresh in the way orchard apples were. No matter what, you couldn’t beat orchard apples, bruises and all. Nothing shop bought could match it. He’d tried. Eddie smiled to himself, but only because no one else could see him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Bill remarked as they neared him, grinning as they nearly bumped hulls. The two boats then began to cruise together without a need for rowing, carefully slowing to a stop. “Beautiful, right?”

“Sure is,” Eddie agreed, wiggling his fingers as the coolness enveloped them. _Don’t go getting too close to that lake, Eddiebear. Remember what you read in the medical journal that one time._ He retracted his hand quickly, like it burned. Myra. He’d forgotten. Strange – he wouldn’t usually forget something as important as that.

“This lake has been here since the Ice Age,” Mike commented, lost in his own thoughts as he looked around the great expanse of water. “It was a big block of ice once, but it melted as the world warmed up and became a watering hole for the giant elk, woolly rhino and mastodons. Pretty cool, huh?”

“I know who can master my-”

“Richie, I swear to god if you are going to make a masturbation joke about an extinct species of elephant, I really will drown you,” Eddie cut in, scowling

Richie leant so far back that he was grinning upside down in Eddie’s face. “Aw, Eds, you’re speaking my language.”

“Don’t test me asshole, I’ll do it.”

“If I go, I take you down with me.”

“I hope your spine cracks and you get stuck like that.”

“I’m having the time of my fucking life with these two, if anyone’s wondering,” Mike broke in, loud enough to drown out the squabbling.

Eddie turned in his seat to stare daggers at him, but when Richie laughed with the rest of them he let it slip a little, and ended up rolling his eyes in a resigned sort of way and turning back to the front.

“However old it is,” Beverly said, “it’s stunning out here. Good call on this place, Eds.”

Eddie smiled consciously. He couldn’t bring himself to correct her; she had a free pass with the name, since she’d dealt with his bullshit that morning. “Bill did most of the organising,” he said modestly, “but… thanks. I’m glad you’re all here.”

Richie twisted his body to look at him again, curious, and Eddie met his gaze with a smile, a private one. It meant, ‘ _yes, that means you too’_ and also, ‘ _I really don’t want to lose this but I know I will, so I’m making the most of it while I can.’_

Richie’s eyes widened a fraction and he snapped back to attention, his spine suddenly ramrod straight. Richie did that a lot. Eddie noticed.

He didn’t blame him; he remembered the state he had been in, what a sweat he’d worked himself into for what Richie called That Night. The night he came out to them all; it was only a few months ago now, but Eddie remembered it vividly.

The violent shaking, the crying, the hollow panic: it had mutated Richie into someone small and terrified, someone so unlike the Richie Tozier he knew that it unsettled him. He knew that Richie’s pain wasn’t something he could wrap up in bandages or stick band-aids to the way he did when they were younger; this pain was from a deeper place, somewhere hidden, and all he could do was listen along with the rest of their friends until he was through with it. It had actually hurt Eddie, twisted his gut, to know that the big bad bogeyman that Richie was so terrified of was _himself._

He had hugged him as tight as the rest of them that night, whispered in his ear that he was so proud of him and how he didn’t have to be fucking afraid, not of what they’d think and not of himself. But Richie _was_ still afraid. That was why he drew away sometimes, why he avoided Eddie’s eye and tried to make himself look small – which was a physical impossibility thanks to his general Richie-ness. It didn’t happen as often anymore, but it was still enough for Eddie to take stock of.

“Well,” Richie said brightly, breaking him loose from his daydream, “enough of that serious shit. I dunno about you losers, but I’m going in.”

Eddie nodded dumbly until the words actually registered. Then he froze. “Wait, what?”

Richie was already taking his shoes off, a pair of sneakers that were clearly designer – though why anyone bought _designer sneakers_ Eddie didn’t know. With a flourish, Richie stood up in the boat and started unbuttoning the stupid seabird shirt. Beverly wolf-whistled from her spot in the other boat as he slipped it off with a wink and tossed it her way. “Woo, yeah!” she crowed, even as Ben hissed a panicked, “sit down Bev please the boat!”

Richie still had that dark T-shirt on, but it was discoloured with age and a little tight, as well as having a small hole near his collarbone. How the hell he got a hole there Eddie didn’t know – he did know that it was fundamentally one of the slobbiest and grubbiest T-shirts he’d ever seen of Richie’s. The tiniest glimpse of skin shown through that hole was doing things to him he didn’t appreciate. He was not some sort of Victorian gentleman who got all unnecessary and flustered over the slightest glimpse of flesh – or maybe he was? Ugh.

_And it had to be him_ , he thought with a sigh.

“Anyone joining me?” Richie asked, seeking out each unsure face in turn.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Eddie answered, since no one else would. Richie made a pitiful whining noise at him as he added, “there’s no way I’m going in that water. No fucking way.”

“Didn’t seem to mind the water so much when you were chasing me, Eddie my love,” Richie crooned.

And, well, if nothing else could shut Eddie up, _that_ sure as hell could. Of all the nicknames, that one never failed to fuck him up the most. God, this was his friend, damnit, his friend who told him he liked men and then asked that they never talk about it again. This was the faceless actor in his dreams, the one who would do anything he wanted and give everything; because apparently when his subconscious looked up the words ‘healthy homoerotic fantasy’ there was a picture of Richie fucking Tozer underneath it. He needed to stop.

“That’s because I was trying to kill you,” he answered, though it didn’t hold as much venom as it usually did. His heart was far too busy hammering against his ribcage like a prisoner trying to break out.

Thankfully, Richie didn’t notice and just rolled his eyes. “So we got a resounding ‘no’ from Spagedward, how ‘bout the rest of you? Uris, my good man, up for a splash?”

Stan peered into the water, seemingly deliberating on something, before he nodded and stood up in his own boat too, though with a little more care than Richie had in his. “STAN,” Bill said, scandalised, but Stan was already stepping out of his cargo shorts and peeling his shirt off somehow at the same time. Eddie gawped at him, mainly because it was far easier than looking at Richie. From the grunts and curses he could hear coming from him, he was having some trouble with his belt buckle and he definitely wasn’t going to offer him help.

The only appropriate reaction to Stan was the simple and slightly annoyed, “oh what the FUCK,” Eddie caught coming out his own mouth.

Stan immediately tensed. “What?”

He was always the skinniest one out of them all; thin and wiry and quiet, that was Stan’s gig. But now, all grown up, he was…

“Am I seriously the only one who didn’t get hot?” Richie complained.

“Beep beep Richie,” Stan said coolly, though the flush to his cheeks gave him away. There were a couple of scars on his body, none too deep and most looking suspiciously like claw scratches. Eddie hadn’t sworn at those; he’d sworn at how he was somehow still as slender as he remembered him, but ropey with muscle probably sustained accidentally during his many expeditions through the years. Still. Goddamnit. Despite his obvious embarrassment, Stan wasn’t hiding away. He just had his hands held out to the side, as if to say, ‘Yep, this is me. Got a problem? I don’t. Neither has my wife, who gets to share a bed with this.’

Eddie wished he could be more like Stan.

Dropping his clothes into the bottom of the boat amid a cheering Beverly and a stunned Bill, Stan glanced their way. “Gonna get going, Trashmouth, or is mouth all you are?”

All eyes moved to Richie, Eddie following their lead. For once, Richie was wearing relatively normal looking boxers. No dumb patterns or jokes on them, just black to match his T-shirt. If he squinted, Eddie thought, it looked like Richie was wearing some kind of old fashioned bathing suit. He’d taken his glasses off and had them clenched tight in his fist. He was grinning in Stan’s direction, though Eddie knew he couldn’t really see where Stan was without his glasses’ help. “I dunno, Stan the Man, do I need to tell Pattycakes you were too much of a pussy to get yourself wet?”

“Call her that again and I’ll make sure she knows about the He-Man incident of 1988.”

“YOU DARE, HER MEMORY OF ME IS SACRED.”

“Girls, girls,” Beverly sighed, “your trash talking is terrible, you’re both pretty, just get in the damn water.”

That appeared to be the magic words. Richie stepped closer to the edge of the boat, causing Eddie to shift himself to the opposite side to balance them out. Uncertainty crossed his expression as he looked in, like he wasn’t sure how he was going to do it. He glanced back at them and caught Eddie’s eye. He was waiting for something. Eddie wasn’t sure what. He raised a brow at him. “Whatever dude, don’t let the water get in your mouth.”

Richie snorted. “Excellent pro tip, Captain Crunch.”

“Seriously. Because if you injest lake water you can contract-”

“See ya, Eds!”

“Ri-!”

Too late. With a whoop of glee, Richie jumped off the boat and into the lake, water exploding in every direction. It doused Eddie and Mike, and all Eddie could do was splutter and gasp as a round of cheers rose up around him. Stan went straight after Richie, executing a perfect dive that showered the inhabitants of his boat with water. It was Eddie and Mike’s turn to cheer. Richie came up first, breaking the surface with a sharp hiss and his hair plastered to his head. “SHIT that’s cold,” he commented, treading water as he turned himself around.

“Moron, I told you to keep the water out of your mouth!” Eddie yelled, wringing water out of his already ruined shirt. Richie gave a solemn salute, and Eddie cracked a smile without meaning to. It was only small. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction to laugh.

Stan surfaced closer to Richie, making him jump, and splashed him with a laugh before diving under again and coming up a few feet away. Rolling onto his back, he shouted out, “It’s not that cold, guys, you get used to it.”

“I don’t know if I believe the statement of a man who swam the Kenduskeag in the middle of November,” Ben said.

But Beverly was already standing up, stripping down to her underwear without a second’s hesitation. Any other woman and Eddie would probably have been uncomfortable watching her undress in front of him. But this was _Beverly._ He’d seen her almost naked so many times that it honestly didn’t bother him anymore. The only thing he picked out was that she had matching underwear, which according to Myra was rare. Eddie didn’t know enough women to know better. It was dark green and sort of lacy. Eddie let the thought cross his mind that they suited her before, with a shriek of laughter, she also jumped in.

With identical smiles, everyone else started to take off their shorts and shirts and leapt into the lake, whooping and cheering like teenagers on spring break. Ben went next, then Bill. Mike was teetering on the edge of their boat when he clearly noticed Eddie hadn’t moved an inch. “You coming in?”

Eddie shook his head, Myra’s words reverberating around his head. _“I don’t want you going into the lake, Eddiebear. I need my man fit and healthy.”_ He swallowed painfully. She… she was right. Lakes had sickness in them. You could drown in them. They were deceivingly pretty, that’s how they got you. They sucked you in and before you knew it…

“Someone needs to look after the boats,” he justified.

“They won’t go anywhere,” Mike said. “There’s barely any current.”

“Still,” Eddie said, adopting a weak smile. “I’m good here. Go ahead.”

Mike definitely wanted to argue with him, but Bill and Stan began chanting his name and there was no way he was going to leave them hanging. So he dived, raising up another bout of raucous cheers. Eddie contented himself with leaning on the lip of the boat and watching them all with a wistful smile.

He was okay with this. As a kid he’d always battled with wanting to join in and listening to the miniature Mom in his head telling him he was too sickly, too delicate, too _weak_ to do the things the other kids did. Funny – he used to win those internal arguments a hell of a lot more when he was younger. Now look at him.

He knew he wasn’t delicate the way Mom used to say he was, but Myra had taught him that it never hurt to be cautious. Sometimes he wondered if being delicate and being cautious were far too close to separate. The thoughts just stayed inside him, rolling around on their own safety-assured rollercoaster and telling him he was strong, he was weak, Myra was wrong, Myra was right. Myra would be there, Myra would look out for him, Myra just worried about him, always worried, wanted to make sure he was playing with the right kids and wasn’t taking part in gym class because his lungs, oh the poor Eddiebear’s lungs…

He shook himself, frowning as he patted himself down for his inhaler. He triggered it in his throat at the same moment Beverly launched herself at Richie and sent them both underwater in a white, roiling foam. When they both resurfaced spitting and spluttering he nearly fell out of the boat in his effort to reach for them, but then they started laughing and his chest loosened. _They were having fun, Christ Eddie get a hold of yourself._ He was happy enough watching Beverly clamber onto Ben’s shoulders and incite a chicken battle with Bill and Stan. It was already an unfair match, since Ben was half a head taller than Stan and helped Beverly loom over them like a rampaging giant.

Seeing his friends happy settled that rollercoaster in Eddie’s stomach. It gave him a warmth he’d not found anywhere else. It felt mindlessly content, the comfortable weight and warmth of finally stopping after a long, hard day. And with the sun glaring above them, Eddie didn’t think there was a single place he would’ve rather been at that moment. He wanted this moment captured, just like the marks on the Memory Tree.

He let his gaze pass over them all, but they lingered where Richie and Mike were swimming circles around one another. He remembered that Richie was a surprisingly good swimmer; he and Stan were the best in the group by far, though Eddie always assumed that Richie’s severe lack of survival instincts meant that being a strong swimmer was something of a necessity. Stan had been in swim club in elementary school, which was the more reasonable explanation.

Richie kept curling underwater and swimming past Mike, only to come up for air a few seconds later with a pleased smile. It wasn’t lost on Eddie that he was the only one who kept his shirt on. Under all that bravado, he was still so worried about people looking at him.

Eddie wished he could do something about that – and then immediately dismissed it from his mind. This would come to an end, and then he’d be gone. Back to New York, and Myra, and the wedding. And Richie would be in LA, and he’d find someone who wasn’t some hypochondriac-riddled coward who didn’t just _wish_ he could teach him what a dumb fucking catch he was. He rested his chin on his folded arms, staring out at where Richie’s head appeared and disappeared at frequent intervals, and told himself it was cold and clinical psychology talking.

Richie invaded his dreams the way he did because he was the only gay guy Eddie knew, the only one who would know what to do. His mind was nothing if not practical. It was also cruel and it didn’t make sense, but what could Eddie do? Nothing, was the right answer. Because it was nothing. He couldn’t do that to Richie, not his best friend, not the person running through his veins like a virus. He sighed. Boy, was he in trouble.

When he focused back on the lake, Richie was swimming towards him – somewhat blindly, since his glasses were still clutched in his hand. “Can’t tempt you, Eds?” he shouted across to him.

_Do not fucking test me,_ Eddie thought. Instead, he said, “Hardly,” and wrinkled his nose at the perfectly fine, perfectly crisp water. “You’re all gonna get some weird lake disease and I will not be helping you, because I will be quarantining myself in my room. Do you know how many RWIs you can get in lakes like this? A hell of a lot. Like… so many. It’s swimming in germs and bacteria, like fucking Crypto and… and Giardia.”

Richie didn’t look at all bothered about Crypto or Giardia, something Eddie personally thought was a mistake. He just pouted, his bottom lip quivering as he tread water. “You really aren’t coming in, Eddie my love?”

_Yes. Fuck, I changed my mind, gimme two minutes and I’ll be there._ “No way in hell,” he answered, hating himself. “There could be eels.”

“Eels?” Richie was grinning now.

“Big fuck off eels,” Eddie nodded. “They can reach 4 metres long, dude, you don’t fuck with them.”

“Think I got me one of those eels.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

And then Richie went under. One minute he was there and then he wasn’t, like something had grabbed his foot and yanked it down. Eddie grabbed the edges of the boat and leaned over, staring wildly into the water. “Richie? That isn’t fucking funny man, c’mon.” Nothing happened. A chill fired through Eddie as he sat there, frantically searching the lake for any signs of him. “Richie?” he shouted, attracting the attention of the others. “Richie, where the fuck did you go?” He had been half joking about the eels, but what if it was true and one had got Richie? And he was sure there were no sharks around, least of all in a lake in the middle of Maine, but what if he was wrong and there was some fluke Great White lurking in the depths?

He stared furiously into the water – why was it so goddamn difficult to see shit? – and tried not to show how much he was panicking. “Richie, you better come up for air so-”

His nose was almost touching the water when Richie burst up from nowhere like a hairy, screeching mermaid. With a shriek, Eddie fell back into the boat, causing it to lurch wildly. This time, though, it didn’t rock back. Instead, it kept going. Too late, Eddie realised it wasn’t going to straighten itself out. With a short scream that tailed off into a furious, “RIIIICHIIIIEEEE,” the boat tipped over and unceremoniously dumped Eddie into the lake.

The first thing he registered as he hit the water was: Stan’s a fucking liar, this water is going to freeze my balls off. The second thing was: fuck, I feel heavy. His sodden clothes billowed around him like clouds but weighed him down like anchors. The lake wasn’t as murky as he expected, so much so that he could watch Mike and Richie’s clothes flutter to the lakebed like strange jellyfish. He started struggling towards the surface, but his clothes made it harder and soon his lungs were burning. He needed to breathe, needed to suck in air the way he always did – but he knew he _couldn’t_ , and that sent panic shooting through him like lightning.

Then he noticed the blurred shape of Richie heading towards him, pushing through the water like it was nothing but a backstage curtain. He tried to swim closer to him, his lungs shrivelled and screaming, but every single lesson about keeping calm and using your arms as well as your legs had gone sailing out of the window. He just flailed madly in his general direction, losing a shoe in the process, and hoped Richie got the message.

He did. Richie’s eyes were wide with panic, with fear for Eddie. When they reached one another, Eddie didn’t even think. He clung to Richie like he was a lifejacket thrown his way, felt an arm draw around him and Richie’s body tense as he forced them up to the surface.

And then Eddie could breathe; they broke the surface together, Eddie coughing and choking and Richie’s hair covering most of his face. All Eddie could see was a desperate, gasping mouth, but he was glad to see it. The arm vanished from his back immediately. “What… was that… about keeping… your mouth closed?” Richie teased through his gasps for breath, though his words wobbled on weak legs.

Eddie retched at the very idea of the water getting down his throat and locked his arms under Richie’s armpits. There was no way he was going back under, not unless he dragged Richie down with him. He tried to catch his breath, and ignore the fact that he was very much wrapped around Richie like a koala. “I… did keep my mouth shut…fucker…” he answered.

Richie grinned, relief clear in just the dip of his mouth, and shook himself to get the hair out of his eyes. It sent droplets of water everywhere, and Eddie hid his face in Richie’s chest to avoid the worst of it. “Ugh, you’re like a big fucking dog,” he complained, smacking him in the arm as he brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Like one of those fucking sheepdogs, Jesus.”

“Does that make you a sheep?” Richie grinned. “Baaaa.”

“Fuck off.”

“Excuuuse me, I saved you.”

“From nearly drowning, because _you_ capsized the boat.”

“Eh. You say ‘to-may-toe’…”

Eddie went to hit him again, but at that exact moment something thick and slippery brushed against his leg. “Augh SHIT.”

He jumped back into Richie’s arms, and both of them went under. This time when Eddie fought to the surface, both of Richie’s arms were around his waist and straining to lift him further up out of the water. “Jesus, Eds, alright! It’s okay man, I gotcha, I gotcha, don’t panic,” he was saying, repeating it over and over like a mantra. It was then that Eddie realised his arms were around Richie’s neck and his face was pressed against his shoulder as he feverishly gulped in air. He tried to move as heat tore through him, but all he could do was rest his face against Richie’s, the scratch of his stubble oddly grounding. Richie was breathing hard, his body quaking with the force of keeping them both afloat, and Eddie slowly uncoiled himself to help kick against the heavy press of the lake around them. And _God,_ his heart was racing; Eddie could feel it against his own chest, beating a furious rhythm that his own struggled to match.

Still, Eddie scrunched his eyes tight and let himself have this, a moment he was unlikely to have again. Richie surrounded him; the hands at his back, pressing and careful, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the voice in his ear telling him to breathe, that he was okay, that Richie had him. _God, did he fucking ever._

Eddie hated the old cliché of someone being like the sun, of being so blindingly brilliant that you couldn’t always look at them, or get too close. Richie was nothing like the sun, after all; he was far from brilliant to most people, and Eddie could look at him just fine. But there was still that sense that if he got too close – if he _let_ himself get too close – that he would just burn to a crisp without any evidence he ever existed at all.

But right then and there, he didn’t feel like he was burning. He felt… safe. Secure. It wasn’t in the ‘I’m delicate, protect me’ way he’d always tried so hard to reject when he was growing up. This was simpler than that. This was just his best fucking friend in the whole world, holding him because he needed it – and that made him invincible.

_It made him **loved**. _

Eddie pulled back, his startled eyes meeting Richie’s equally wide ones. _Oh. Oh, shit._

“Eddie?” Richie asked. His voice sounded far away, maybe a little dazed. “Fuck, you… you scared me, dude, your inhaler’s probably history but can you breathe?”

Eddie said nothing. His gaze raked over Richie’s face, the lines and fear that hid the kid beneath them, and he couldn’t find a single witty retort. Because he wasn’t sure he just wanted Richie the way he did in his dreams anymore – and that scared the hell out of him.

He tightened his grip around Richie’s neck in spite of himself, his entire body locked in panic until Richie cleared his throat. “Uh, Eds? Breathing? That’s a thing you gotta do, bud.”

Oh. Yeah, right. Breathing. That was indeed a thing he had to do. He loosened his grip with a frown, shaking himself gently. “I’m… fuck. I’m breathing, Rich, shit.” _Feels like the first time in a while._

“Didn’t think you hated water this much, fuck dude I’m sorry.” Richie released him and Eddie reluctantly let go too. He tried to stop the overwhelming feeling of loss take over him, but it was hard to stave it off. “I was only messing around, I didn’t know you were-”

“It’s fine,” Eddie said, too quickly. “You made me jump, that’s all. I’m perfectly capable of swimming, even if I’m not the strongest. And, uh… I thought something touched my leg.”

“Ah. That would be the eels.”

Eddie scowled at him. “God, you’re the worst.”

Richie let out a weak laugh, and everything settled. Richie made a joke, Eddie got mad about it. But this time, Richie’s joke was a little strained and Eddie didn’t really get mad. Something in their universe had shifted, and Eddie was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be turning back any time soon.

* * *

Their group cut a strange shape as they returned to the lakehouse. After enlisting Stan and Mike’s help, Eddie and Richie managed to fish the clothes from the bottom of the lake and wring them out as best they could. Stan even found Eddie’s inhaler; Eddie didn’t have the heart to tell him it was unlikely to ever work again, so he just pocketed it with a smile. The weather decided to turn at precisely the wrong moment and since none of them had the idea to bring towels, most of them made their way back along the forest trail wearing nothing except their underwear and shoes. Beverly had an assortment of shirts swaddling her in new and abstract ways – she was a designer after all, she knew what she was doing – since she’d quietly mentioned she was cold and received all the shirts she could need. The look was completed with Richie’s seabird shirt, draped over her like a kimono.

Eddie trudged behind them all, still fully clothed and leaving small puddles in his wake. Richie had offered him his jacket. Eddie hadn’t thought it was a good idea to have the smell of Richie and dust assaulting his nose, so he politely declined. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to get close to anyone at that moment, least of all Richie.

He didn’t know what to fucking do.

The simple answer was, obviously, ignore it; so it was some gross teenage infatuation, some pathetic little crush on his best friend who could do way better. Richie was a walking car crash, sure, but he was also attentive and caring, even if he tried so hard to hide it. Eddie couldn’t hope to match that. So what? It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

_But that’s not the point,_ a snide voice in the back of his head reminded him, _What about Myra? Your wedding?_

Eddie dug his nails into his palms as he walked. He was so close, so fucking close to getting everything right. He had the house, the job… all he needed now was the wife. It might have come unexpectedly, but it _had_ come – and it would show them. It would show all of them; the kids from school who said he’d never find anyone to love him, his work colleagues who were all convinced he was actually celibate, even his Mom as she glared down at him from wherever she was. And Myra loved him. She loved him so much, and Eddie loved her too. He was sure of it. He enjoyed her company. He liked seeing her happy. That was love, wasn’t it? It had to be.

But then he caught sight of Richie up ahead, ruffling Stan’s hair and hanging off Ben’s shoulder and wondered if something as complicated as loving someone could have various symptoms.

“Home, sweet home!” Bill crowed as they filed through the door. “Whew, after that I think drinks are in order.”

“Ah, now you’re speaking my language,” Mike said, making an immediate beeline for the kitchen. “I can get dinner started too.”

“Mike, you’re an angel.”

“I try.”

Eddie hung back from the others as he shut the door behind them, a shiver rippling through him from the chill of the still-damp clothes he wore. He thought of his abandoned phone, locked in his room buzzing angrily to itself, and the shower he was desperate to jump into. He wanted to scrub away every remnant of the lake, and everything he wasn’t – and then a pair of ruined designer sneakers entered his vision. He looked up to see Richie standing over him, his brows drawn together in a frown. “What?” he asked, eloquently.

“You sure you’re okay?” Richie asked. He said it quietly, so the others couldn’t hear, and his frown grew deeper. Oh, fuck.

Eddie tried to speak, but on the first attempt no sound came out. When he tried again, he forced out, “Why would there be anything wrong?”

Richie shrugged. “You’re quiet,” he answered honestly. “And, y’know, you were underwater a while. Long-term brain damage, maybe?”

Eddie snorted. “H-hey, shut up. I already have brain damage hanging around with you losers.”

Richie’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “Eds gets off a good one,” he said, but it was subdued. Thoughtful. It worried Eddie immediately. With a brief laugh, Richie added, “Was worried you caught _ignoramus extremus_ off me. Close proximity, and all that. Don’t want my dumpster fire of a life infecting you, now do we?”

For some reason, that got to Eddie. All the self-deprecating shit Richie said, all the insults he threw back in return – and _that_ was what got to him. Richie’s weak-hearted joke that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he said.

Richie’s smile fell. “Huh?”

“Look, we joke around about that shit, but you… you’re not as much of a fuck-up as you think.” God, what was he saying? He had to shut up. Right now. Immediately. Why wasn’t he shutting up? “You… you know that, right?”

By the look on Richie’s face, Eddie definitely should have shut up before he even opened his mouth. “Uh,” was all he said, obviously wrongfooted.

“Well you should. Know that, I mean,” Eddie added, wondering why the hell his mouth wasn’t listening to his brain.

“Uh.”

“Anyway, I’m fine. Just gotta change and call my – call Myra,” he stumbled over his words – why? – and ducked around Richie to get to his door. If he wasn’t going to stop talking, then he could at least use his legs. “Could you ask Bill not to open the Merlot until I get back? Thanks.”

Richie didn’t say anything. Fuck, he had to say _something_. Then again, Eddie didn’t give him much of a chance. Before he lost his nerve, he turned back, hand on the doorknob, and almost shouted, “You’re more than your stage name, you fucking clod, so start acting like it!” before bolting into his room and slamming the door.

He leant back against it for a minute or two, pressing his head to the woodwork as he tried to slow his racing heart. Fuck, what was wrong with him? He could hear Ben asking what that had been about, and some nonsensical reply from Richie before he peeled himself free and eyed his two options from a distance. Even as he watched, his phone lit up with another angry message.

Shower, he decided. Definitely shower.

And as he stepped inside the booth and turned on the water, he found himself wishing for the cold, disease-ridden, imaginary-eel-infested lake, and the comforting weight of Richie all around him. He thrust his head under the shower and turned the temperature hotter, gritting his teeth against the white sting against his chilled skin. Maybe he could burn it away, scrub himself clean like he did after the dreams. But he knew, deep down, he’d need a hell of a lot of water to do that.


	9. Richie Tozier gets greedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's pov: it's the afternoon/evening following the lake trip and Richie's far too obvious, hates talking about weddings and shows off his dancing skills not once, but twice - but one of those dances is not like the other. 
> 
> This is a bit of a monster chapter but it's my absolute Achilles Heel so I hope y'all okay with that. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and share it around! :)

Richie wanted it on record that he didn’t start listening at Eddie’s door until Beverly convinced him it was a good idea. After Eddie practically slammed the door in his face, leaving him uncomfortably hot and unsure if he’d just been complimented or insulted, Richie felt a little – disjointed. He and Eddie, they were built on jibes and quips; from their foundations at elementary school with Richie pretending to eat worms and Eddie nearly throwing up, they walked their own line of friendship, often shoving each other over it before finding their way back. Anyone else, and it wouldn’t make sense. Richie couldn’t do it with Bill, or Stan, or even Beverly. But the rules to the game they’d played since they were seven were beginning to change, and it was veering into very dangerous territory indeed.

Especially with that stunt he pulled at the lake. Eddie clinging to him, with his arms around his neck. Eddie’s face, pressed to his as he gasped for air. Eddie, muttering curses into his skin that fell like little more than raindrops. And Richie had kept him close, kept his arms around him even though he told himself it was a bad idea. Something had spiked in his lower stomach, something hot and primal, but he fought it back. He’d just wanted to hold him, keep him grounded the way Eddie had done for him when they were younger. He was returning the favour. That’s all it was. That’s all Eddie needed to think it was, anyway.

“What the hell was that about?” Ben asked at the door slam, and Richie honestly didn’t know. At least, he _refused_ to know. If it was what he thought it was, the same thing he’d seen in Eddie’s expression at the lake… what he _hoped_ it was…

Nope. Not happening. Don’t go there, Tozier.

So why was his ear pressed to Eddie’s door barely twenty minutes later, feverishly hissing at everyone to shut the fuck up as he listened to Eddie’s phone call to his fiancée? Well. He was claiming peer pressure on that one.

They had somehow all managed to find a spot to eavesdrop, which Richie considered pretty impressive; Bill got the short straw since he was led flat on his stomach to make room for those above him, but the shape Mike had pretzelled himself into was truly inspiring.

“SSH,” Beverly hissed for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I think he said ‘hey’.”

Everyone went quiet. Richie strained to hear something, anything – and then he caught Eddie’s voice. It came to him muffled, but he was able to catch most of it. “Hey, hey, stop shouting, I can hear you… Myra, it’s fine, we were out, I left my phone here. I’m sorry, I know I should always have it with me for emergencies, but there were enough of us, someone had a phone. Okay, well, no, they don’t have your number but I have it memorised so I could call if I nee – okay sure, I will next time I’m out.”

Eddie sounded tired. More than that, exhausted. He wasn’t eager for the call, something that came as a surprise to Richie. It also sounded – rehearsed. Like Eddie had had this conversation three times a day, for a lifetime. _You don’t know Myra_ , Richie reminded himself. _You can’t form an opinion of her through a one-sided phone conversation_. But he could. Oh, but he could. She made Eddie sound like a record player, one that played the same song over and over and hitched at the best part. He frowned. Hm.

“We went to the lake,” Eddie was saying, his voice brightening again for a moment. “It’s beautiful out here, you should see it. Just like when we were – hmm? What? Oh.” His voice dropped, and Richie knew Eddie so well he could imagine his shoulders sagging. “No, I didn’t… I didn’t go in, obviously not, all those illnesses I could catch? No way. Yeah… yeah, I know how you worry. You don’t need to.”

Richie met Beverly’s gaze immediately. She had a haunted look about her. He knew that look. He knew the ghosts that drifted there. _You know I worry about you, Bevvie._ The age-old saying she’d heard from her father, then her husband, before things went wrong. Alarm bells weren’t ringing in Richie’s head just yet, but they were sure as hell getting installed. He pressed a hand to the door, fingers creasing against the woodwork. He wanted, dumb though it sounded, to step through the door and take the phone from him. _It’s not your business, nothing to do with you, stay out of it, it’s his fiancée they’re **happy** … _

Then the tone changed. “Bev is fine,” Eddie said shortly. This was blunt. Dead. More awake. “Why not ask about Mike or Stan too? They’re also fine.” A pause. “Come on, that’s not fair. She’s fucking married.”

“Not a fan of you, eh Bev?” Mike whispered, as Eddie apologised for his language.

“Hmph, feeling’s mutual,” Beverly muttered back.

Something shifted. Eddie’s voice went from a cold hissy fit to the kind of Eddie-grade venom that sent them all shrinking back from the door. “Don’t you _DARE_ talk about him like that!” _Him? Who was ‘him’?_ “Don’t even go there! I told you, he’s not – what? Myra, Myra, listen to me. I shouldn’t have shouted, but please remember I am marrying you. You, okay? Isn’t that enough?” Another pause. “What do you mean, _no_?!”

Stan winced. “Oof.”

Richie felt sick. He couldn’t do this. He pulled away and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen area. He liked drama as much as the next person, but not like this. It wasn’t his argument to overhear. He’d hoped that Myra Emilia Kaminski was nice; an unassuming, pretty girl who collected stamps or something equally boring and thought Eddie hung the moon. That’s what Eddie deserved. If she was like Patty, or even Beverly, Richie was sure he could learn to love her the way Eddie did, or at least stand to be in the same room as her. But hearing that, and the fight response it stirred up in Eddie… he wasn’t so sure about Myra Emilia Kaminski, who ate Twinkies and apparently didn’t like Beverly.

He turned the heat back up on the bolognese concoction that Mike had been rustling up before they all got distracted and had an experimental taste. Mmm. Needed a kick. Looking around for something, he caught sight of a small spice rack tucked at the back of the cupboards. Of course Eddie brought a spice rack with him, he thought with a fond smile – then quickly rid his head of everything except the food in front of him. Food safe. Feelings no.

He added some chilli powder and a pinch of oregano the way the recipe books always told him to at the same time everyone scrambled back from Eddie’s door in a stampede of limbs. The man himself burst out seconds later, thrusting his phone in his pocket as he went. He didn’t look angry or upset – just frustrated.

He didn’t appear to notice the rest of their friends crashed out on the couches attempting to act natural; instead, he strode over to Richie, his jaw clenched. For one terrifying, wonderful moment, Richie thought he was going to get an incendiary kiss. He almost leaned in. But then Eddie was pushing past him, swinging open cupboards in search of a wine glass. His hands were shaking.

“I need a fucking drink,” he hissed, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Was everything okay, Eddie?” Ben called out, still glued to the couch. God, only _Ben_ could get away with asking such a blatantly guilty question.

Eddie didn’t reply at first. He was too busy raiding every cupboard in the kitchen. He’d come across plenty of wine glasses, but clearly there was one in particular he was looking for. Richie stood still as Eddie stomped around him, and felt a bit like the eye of a wine-guzzling storm. He spotted a glass on the counter, one that was taller than the others and had a slight smoky tint to the glass. He held it out to Eddie, silently questioning, and Eddie’s glare cleared. He took it from Richie carefully, their fingers bumping together. Eddie’s were still shaking.

“Everything’s fine,” he said in answer to Ben, fumbling for the bottle of red wine on the side. Richie handed him that, too. As Eddie poured it out, still trembling a little, he added, “She just worries. She hadn’t heard anything from me since this morning, so.” He shrugged. “It’s my fault. I should’ve checked in with her sooner. I got mad, and I shouldn’t have done that. I think she’s upset now.”

“But you said you messaged her this morning?” Bill questioned. “Surely that’s enough.”

Eddie shot him a dark look. “What is this, the Spanish fucking Inquisition?”

“Oookay.” Bill held up his hands, a gesture he appeared to be getting used to. “Forget I said anything.”

Eddie threw back his whole glass of wine in a couple of gulps. He didn’t even pause to sample the bouquet like the pretentious little loser he was. Most unusual. He looked defeated, his entire body slumped and made small. He wanted nothing more than to fade into the background, Richie could tell. That was why he turned the heat back down on the bolognese and stepped up. “Eddie?”

Eddie bristled, like he was ready for a fight. Perhaps that was what he wanted. “What?” he demanded, surging into Richie’s face like he wanted to bite his nose off. “What the fuck do _you_ want? Time to mock me, is it? Oh, look at Eddie Kaspbrak, he’s upset his girlfriend! Well go on, I’m all fucking ears.”

Richie ignored him, let the words bounce off him like a feeble punch. He didn’t say anything; he simply took the glass out of Eddie’s hand, set it down on the side and opened his arms. Eddie stared at him, clearly wondering if it was part of the joke, so Richie helped him out. He took another step and drew him into the hug he figured he needed, wrapping his arms around him the moment he felt him make contact.

He expected Eddie to seize up completely and tell him to get the fuck off him – best case scenario, he’d get a weak attempt at a hug back. But Eddie sank into him, his arms coming around his body and squeezing so tight, hands clutching fistfuls of his shirt like he was afraid to let go. Like he would lose him if he did.

Oh. Oh, okay. This was fine.

Richie swayed them together in the kitchen, rubbing Eddie’s back to soothe the shakes still wracking his body. “Come on, Spaghetti man, you’re okay,” he murmured, resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “You didn’t mean it, you grumpy ol’ codger, we know you didn’t, don’t worry.” His eyes flitted over to the couches, and where the rest of their friends were staring at them. Beverly was smiling, sadly and fondly, and the rest of them? They stared in a whole other way. They knew. Oh god, they knew.

Almost in response, Richie tightened his grip on Eddie and closed his eyes, shutting out those understanding, knowing gazes and letting himself be greedy for a change. He could have this. This was all he got. It had to be enough.

When they broke apart, Eddie was swiping viciously at his eyes with the back of his hand. That was almost enough to set Richie off himself. So, he cleared his throat and patted Eddie’s shoulder the way Ben often did when he was showing affection. “Better?” he asked.

Eddie sighed, but nodded. “Better.” He paused. “R-Rich, I don’t want to talk about-”

“So don’t.” Richie tried out a smile. He hoped it stuck. “Your break, your rules. Most of the time, anyway.”

Eddie sighed, but this one brought a relieved smile with it.

After re-filling his glass, he steered Eddie over to their waiting friends. Richie was grateful to see they avoided his eye when they sat down. Good. He didn’t need to deal with whatever shit they wanted to fling at him right now. It would happen, he was sure of it, but not tonight. God, not tonight. As if to make a point, he squeezed himself on the couch with Beverly and Ben, leaving space for Eddie on the opposite couch with Stan and Mike. Bill had commandeered the armchair, but no one commented on that. Bill somehow belonged there, as their leader of old.

The afternoon slipped into evening quickly. Once Mike’s bolognese was served to tumultuous praise, the drink began to flow. Eddie was different now, post-Myra chat. The shaking might have stopped, but the hunted, defensive side of him began to creep back into existence. The wine helped ease him, which was probably why he was drinking it so fast. Even when he wasn’t, he had the glass in his hand, nursing it until it felt right to take another sip. Richie knew too well what dependency looked like, and Eddie held onto that glass as firmly as he did his pill bottle. He thought he should maybe tell him to slow down – then remembered his graveyard of empty bottles in his recycling back home and realised what a hypocrite he was. He ended up cracking a joke about spaghetti being a running theme to their trip until, predictably, Eddie threw some of the aforementioned pasta at him.

“Augh, Eddie why?” he wailed, untangling it from the frames of his glasses, and the little shit just answered waspishly that he deserved it. Still, it thawed the ice he’d cast around himself – just a bit. It was a start.

“So, Eddie,” Mike asked, breaking through the general chatter, “you got everything ready for the wedding?”

Eddie choked on a particularly heavy gulp of wine. Richie took a very long drink of the beer Ben had handed him at almost the same time. He knew it was coming; it was inevitable, since that was why they were here. It didn’t stop his stomach plummeting like a skydiver every time it was mentioned, though.

To his surprise, Eddie actually answered. “I, uh, think so. Myra has it all worked out, I’m just sort of along for the ride.” He let out a laugh that was dead on arrival. Richie ached.

“Where’s the reception?” Beverly asked, leaning across Richie to hear better. Her hand brushed his thigh in a gesture he recognised; she was subtly trying to comfort him. Richie, just as subtly, inched away. He was a big boy. He had to suck it up.

Eddie answered that, too. “Just a little place not too far from the church. Myra picked it, I think it’s a hotel of some kind, I… I’m not sure.”

“Sounds like you’re really involved,” Stan commented, earning a resigned sort of glare in return.

“I guess… weddings aren’t really my thing,” Eddie admitted, after a pause. He set his glass on the table (not before finding a coaster to set it on first) and toyed with the hem of his shirt, clearly uncomfortable. It wasn’t a childish or coy motion by any means; it looked like he wanted to tear the whole shirt apart. Well, Richie certainly wouldn’t stop him. That thought sent his beer on a time-out to the table too. “I mean, I get it. But I don’t see why you have to have such a big song and dance just to tell your friends and family you’re going to be with someone for the rest of your life.”

Oof, there it was. The nail in the coffin. God, Richie needed to stop this.

“It’s quite the commitment party,” he said. No one listened.

“It just seems a little…” Eddie made a face. “….gloaty.”

Beverly laughed. “Aw, Eddie, weddings are your _excuse_ to gloat. Like: ‘look at how amazing I am, and look at the amazing person I convinced to like me’. It’s a celebration of how much you love someone. It’s meant to be the day you look back on, one you remember.”

“I second that,” Ben chipped in, leaning over to kiss Beverly’s cheek. “My wedding was the happiest day of my life. It was… everything I wanted it to be. No forgetting that in a hurry.”

Eddie looked dubious. “Even when Bill got so wasted he had a fight with the band because they wouldn’t play ‘Wonderwall’ and Richie fell into your cake?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” said Ben, grinning from ear to ear.

Eddie paused. “Didn’t Richie also kick a hole in the wall?” Richie resented that.

“Hey, Trashmouth had a free pass that night,” Beverly added, slinging an arm around him and pecking him on the side of the head. “Maid of Honour benefits.”

“Hell yeah,” he agreed, beaming at her. “Y’all just jealous you weren’t the Maids. That was the sweetest gig I’ve had for a long time.”

“Anyway,” Beverly continued, “You just have to be marrying for the right reasons, Eds. I didn’t get it right the first time. But you know what? That’s okay. I loved my second wedding, but that was because I was marrying Ben. It could’ve been anywhere. I’d have married him anyway.” With a smile, she released Richie and ensnared Ben in a deep kiss that made Richie bark out, “God, you hets are gonna make me barf,” just to break the tension.

He thought they were over talking about weddings, but then Bill spoke up from his armchair throne. “Audra and I got married in October because the venue was cheaper and we were trying to get a good deal. She wasn’t getting so many acting jobs back then and I was still hopping from agent to agent with my book deals. We wanted an outdoor wedding, but when the day came it rained the whole time. I thought Audra would be devastated, but she just laughed.” He smiled fondly. “All of our wedding photos were ridiculous, we looked like drowned rats.”

“Great wedding, shame about the marriage, eh?” Richie quipped. He hadn’t ever met Audra Denborough; he had, however, met Audra _Phillips_ , recent amiable divorcee, when he’d met up with Bill for lunch during an LA press tour. Audra was beautiful, headstrong and great company – but not, she admitted, a great wife. Bill and Audra were better off as good friends, the way they’d started. Richie couldn’t agree more.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bill said curtly. Eh. He deserved that. “But I guess you’re right. The wedding was amazing, but I’ll know not to pick Fall if I ever get married again. Audra’s already said she’ll go to the Maldives to make sure she gets good weather.”

“Bully for Audra,” Richie remarked. He was being an ass, he knew that. Well, fuck them. It was a coping mechanism.

To his horror, Stan waded into the conversation. Of course, he’d had a wedding that ran like clockwork. That was just how Stan was, precise down to the finest detail. Richie had seen the pictures, how perfect and beautiful and happy he and Patty had been, and knew that was exactly what they wanted. Exactly how they _were_. It was the right synagogue, the right large country house in the wilds of Atlanta for the reception, and doves – obviously doves, two bird nerds smashing the glass _had_ to have doves – but Richie could see the way Eddie tensed as he listened to Stan explaining how the right napkins made all the difference. He was practically squirming in his seat, unable to get away even though his glass was empty and he clearly really, _really_ wanted to.

Richie cleared his throat. “Delightful as this recollection is, 27 Dresses, Eddie’s about to pass out so can we wrap it up?”

Eddie glowered at him, but he loosened his grip on the couch. “I’m not going to _pass out_ ,” he hissed through his teeth.

Richie nodded. “Sure, sure. You know, death by matrimony is very common in the small and annoying populace.”

“Fuck you.”

_‘27 Dresses’_? Bill mouthed. Richie pointed to Ben in answer, who looked mildly betrayed.

Stan wasn’t done. Reclining in his seat, he shot a question across the table: “Okay then, Mr Romance, what about your wedding?”

Richie froze halfway to his beer bottle. “What? Last time I checked, Staniel, I lacked the ol’ ball and chain.”

Eddie’s eyes were locked on him now; Richie caught it out the corner of his eye. His stare was always intense, had only gotten more so as he got older, but this lodged tight in Richie’s chest and stayed there, stuck fast like a harpoon. Had Eddie been worried he _was_ married? What did that matter to him? Still, he stayed quiet as Stan continued, “I know that, Trashmouth. I mean, if you were going to get married. What would the epitome of romance’s wedding look like?”

Ohh, he wasn’t built for this. He sank back in his seat, beer forgotten as he thought – more of a way to escape rather than about the actual question. “I dunno man, I haven’t – uh – I mean people like me have only been able to get married for like, five years. You guys have had decades to think of grand gestures.”

‘ _People like me’._ Wow. Still not fond of labels, huh champ? He hoped that would be enough. But then-

“Go on, Rich.”

Eddie. He had his hands clasped together in mute prayer, one knee jiggling up and down, and those eyes – fuck, those eyes – still searched his face, looking for a door to open. “What would it be like? I wanna know.” There wasn’t a hint of a tease in there. It sounded serious. _Jesus H Christ, now what?_

His party, his rules.

Fuck. Well, this was happening.

Richie hunched forward, snatching up his beer bottle. He thought properly, honestly; the first time in a while. The music that had been put on in the background faded out as he wracked his brain for something, anything that didn’t sound pathetic. He wasn’t like Stan, or Bill, or even Ben and Beverly. He never even considered marriage because that was a hell of a long way down the line; he couldn’t imagine being with someone that long, have them put up with his bullshit for years instead of weeks. Well. He could think of one person.

“Uh,” he began, picking idly at the bottle’s label as his friends waited. “I guess… I guess I wouldn’t wanna stand on ceremony or anything. I wouldn’t do it in a church. I’d do it somewhere that meant a lot to me, or to whoe- him. To, to him.” No one interrupted, so he ploughed on. “So, uh… nothing fancy. I think… I know… I’d want to make it the funniest, craziest, best day for him though.” At this, he flicked his eyes up to meet Eddie’s own. His expression was unreadable. Good.

Bill asked, “But what about you-?”

“Doesn’t matter about me,” Richie said, not taking his eyes off Eddie. He was sure it was impossible to tear them away now. “It’s all him. I’m nothing, I’m just an accessory to the madness. I’d just want to see him laugh. I’d squash the cake in his face, piss off my in-laws, attempt to dance. God I'd… I’d make myself a fucking _clown_ so long as I got to see him laugh on his wedding day, because he chose to be my husband and that's fucking insane."

Eddie’s hands unfolded as he leant closer. He looked like he wanted to reach out to him. Richie didn’t move, didn’t dare, because it would be too obvious. He just kept looking, and imagining, and hurting. “The pictures would be terrible because I’d be crying like a baby the whole time. I wouldn’t be able to stop, because I’d be marrying my best fucking friend in the world. Nothing else would matter.”

Eddie looked like he’d just been slapped. Still, Richie stared at him, not willing to lose the connection just yet. _You’re looking_ , he reminded himself. _You’re looking too long and that’s bad. He’s not stupid, you fucker, look away. You lost your chance, don’t blow it now._

So he did. He took a swift drink of his beer and set it down on the nearest coaster to appease Eddie. No one spoke. He wasn’t sure he wanted them to. He felt naked all of a sudden, exposed.

Eddie got up from his seat and wandered to the kitchen without a word. Richie let him go, followed him with his eyes. _So long, Eds, nice knowin’ ya._ The nakedness sent a chill through him. He hadn’t spoken so openly about being with a man in… well, ever.

“Well,” Bill said, whilst Richie’s attention remained on Eddie’s back, “What do you know? Richie Trashmouth Tozier, our own John Keats.”

He blinked, returning to reality with a bump. “Buh?”

“That was really romantic, Rich,” Beverly said, hushed. She put her hand on his knee and squeezed. “It was nice. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Richie cracked a smile he hoped was more real than it felt. “Your lack of faith in me is astounding, honestly. I’m romantic as fuck. A-anyway, you know that – what about my speech at your wedding? I had the _kids_ sniffling.”

“You make everyone cry when you’re sincere.”

“From shock, mainly,” Stan added.

“Wow, thanks. At least I’ll have Imaginary Future Husband as my new best friend, Stan the Man, so you’ll be out of a job.” Eddie hadn’t come back. Richie frowned. He couldn’t ignore it. It would be too weird. “Hey, Eduardo!” he called out. “You okay over there, or are you sad you’re gonna be replaced by Imaginary Future Husband too? Nothing personal man, it’s bad news for all you losers.” No response. Shit.

Ben got up, patting Beverly’s hand as he went. He crossed to the kitchen to get a drink himself and Richie tore his gaze away. Yeah, there was no way he was going to watch Ben try to awkwardly talk to Eddie about more marriage shit. He had some remnant of dignity.

Beverly came to the rescue – sort of. “Only problem I got with your little word picture is the ‘attempt to dance’ part.”

He raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Trashmouth, you know you got moves.” She grinned.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he replied coyly, playing along, “but you know me, doll. Wouldn’t wanna boast.”

“Oh God, the Lindyhop,” Bill said, the memory suddenly dawning on him.

The collection of groans that rose up was the fuel Richie needed to forget about his crisis, for the moment. The ache was tucked back into its box, ready to be unleashed again later. “You practiced that for weeks,” Stan said.

“I knew it was a mistake lending you my parents’ old records,” Mike added, shaking his head despite the smile. “I have the entirety of Hellzapoppin’ burned into my soul.”

“It was a competition!” Richie defended. “Those bitches Annie and Hettie from Algebra class were in it with partners, we had to beat ‘em!”

“You did it because you were a fourteen-year-old attention whore,” Beverly pointed out.

_Partly,_ Richie thought, _but it was also because Annie and Hettie said some girl from the poor district didn’t have a chance to beat them, and I was the one who found you trying not to cry by your locker. I hated seeing you try to hide the fact it hurt, so they were going fucking down._ But he held up his hands and sang, “Guilty as charged, Miss Scarlet.”

“You nearly broke your arm,” Bill said. “You turned the wrong way in the Clubhouse and it made that gross cracking sound.”

“Excuse me, Big Bill, did we win?” Beverly asked.

“No, you came 14th.”

“But did we beat those bitches from Algebra class?” she raised a hand, waiting for Richie.

He was way ahead of her. “Hell yeah we did!” he crowed, high-fiving her energetically. “Their faces! Ah, they were a picture.”

“This dumpster baby and square eyes did pretty damn good,” Beverly grinned. Then her eyes widened as she was clearly struck with an idea. Bill noticed.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes, move the table, c’mon!” she said gleefully, already beginning to push it out of harm’s way. There was just enough alcohol in Richie’s system to think this was a wonderful idea, and he immediately leapt up to help.

“I am not driving anyone to the emergency room,” Stan groaned as they cleared a space, tittering to themselves as they went. That was usually Eddie’s line, Richie thought with a pang, but he was too busy in the kitchen so someone had to step up.

Not that he was going to listen to Stan anyway; Beverly wanted to dance, so dance they would. It was easy to see why people mistook them for a couple sometimes. His parents sure as hell thought so; they’d actually been disappointed when he explained he was part of Beverly’s wedding, but not as the groom. He was pretty flattered that anyone thought he’d be able to date someone as hot as Beverly.

“Hey, Richie!” Beverly clapped in his general direction, like trying to get a dog to come to heel. “You remember the steps to the one we did at my wedding?”

Ah yes, the wedding. “My dahling, I will always remember the steps to our first dance,” he replied, bounding over to her with a grin. “I practiced night and day, it’s like… ingrained into my psyche.”

He was pretty sure he and Beverly practiced their dumb routine more than she and Ben had practiced their first dance. And it had been, well…

“That was carnage,” Stan said without a hint of exaggeration. “Did you even get your venue deposit back?”

“Nope,” Beverly replied cheerily, rushing over to the speakers to change the music. “We were told to never come back.”

“Which is bullshit, because I paid damages,” Richie said snottily.

“Like Eddie said, you put your foot through a wall.”

“But I _paid_ , Mikey.”

The mellow folksy song cut out and was replaced by the wailing squall of trumpets and the thrumming beat of drums. Richie let out a barking laugh. Time to shine. “Woo, come on baby! Let me give you a whirl,” he said, adopting a Greaser voice and wiggling his eyebrows.

Beverly grabbed her beer and downed it on her way to him – fuck, she was amazing – and as she moved into position he heard Ben shout, “oh God NO,” from the kitchen.

“We’re gonna rock it babe, don’t you worry!” Beverly called back, and took Richie’s hand amid Ben’s feeble protests. Everyone else was clapping out a rhythm alongside the drums; although they were worried about something as boring as causing property damage, they were first and foremost their friend and on their way to becoming drunk. Sometimes that’s all you needed to really kick off a party.

Beverly raised her eyebrows, counting them in, but Richie took right off. He didn’t need a count.

Watching videos of the real thing with Beverly and Ben one night in Manhattan, Richie learnt the dance was typically done at breakneck speed with girls thrown all over the place and held at ridiculous angles. In that respect, he and Beverly weren’t great at the Lindyhop. On the other hand, they were both adults approaching middle age with mortgages and life commitments that would be affected if they broke every bone in their bodies, so they weren’t _bad._

Richie actually enjoyed dancing; he never thought he was any good at it, but the Lindyhop was comprised predominantly of chaos and flailing, which he could do quite well as a kid and fucking excellently as an adult. There were complicated steps, ones he could never hope to do, but he couldn’t ever say he would be marked down for effort.

Beverly swung her hips in time to the music and her snappy footwork, and Richie contained himself, following her lead with step, step, triple-step step, step, step, triple-step step… His body seemed to wake up with the groan of an old car engine and the more he did it the better it got.

“Woo, go on Rich!” Mike cheered. “Get those hips working, buddy!”

Richie tipped him a saucy wink and an ‘oh shucks’ gesture as he spun Beverly in. Their hands found each other blindly, and he kicked out one leg as she did the same. Richie let the music take him, spinning and releasing and kicking and laughing in a whirl of colour, noise and applause from their audience. He and Beverly twisted and skipped through the steps they remembered with a breathless laughter, adding in a few Tozier originals for bits they forgot.

He was even brave enough to dip Beverly a couple times, drawing her in close like a fish on a line before swooping her down with impressed cries and Beverly’s surprised laughter clouding his ears. Then she was upright again, and he was the one spinning one way and then the next. The world exploded in a kaleidoscope, and when Beverly pulled him back in he was forced to stop, putting a hand on her shoulder and staggering forwards with a chortle. “And that-that’s all folks!” he trilled, “Unless you want to see me paint the walls with Mikey’s bolognese.”

Beverly took a theatrical bow as Mike, Bill and Ben broke into whistling, rowdy applause. Stan still had a cushion pressed over his face, asking, “is it over? No one died?” over the din.

And Eddie? Somewhere along the line he’d come back from the kitchen and was now sat in Richie’s spot on the couch. He had a glass of water in front of him – very wise – and he was joining in with the applause with less enthusiasm than the others. His smile seemed… sad. Preoccupied.

Richie took his own bow. “We are here all week, my good fellows!” he said, picking Beverly up and swinging her around to hear her squeal in his ear. “No refunds for injuries or accidental death!”

She led him back to the couches, which was just as well as the world continued to wobble on its axis. He blinked furiously to clear it, but the lightheaded dizziness took a while to fade. As he got near, Eddie bolted upright and swapped to the other side, muttering a soft, “sorry”, as he passed him. As they passed, Richie _swore_ that Eddie’s hand brushed his own, reaching out for him. But he wasn’t quick enough. It passed through his hand, and then he was sat down. Like nothing had happened. Because nothing had. It was an accident, happened all the time. He _had_ to calm the fuck down.

“You still got it, Richie,” Eddie observed as they both sat back down. Richie still had to catch his breath, his shirt damp with sweat, but he offered a small smile in return. It was all he could manage, because _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck._

“One day I’ll wake up in an empty bed because my wife has absconded with her worthy Lindyhopping partner,” Ben sighed dramatically, landing a kiss on Beverly’s forehead as she collapsed beside him, “and I won’t even be mad.”

Everyone laughed, including Beverly, and Richie’s world re-aligned. “Glad I have your blessing, Haystack,” he said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. He leaned a little closer to Beverly’s ear and whispered, “Richie Tozier First Aid required. Stat.”

Beverly raised a brow at him. “Wha- are you serious?”

He let his eyes drift over to Eddie, who nearly spat his water back into the glass at something Mike had just said. “Deadly fucking serious,” he said.

“The big guns?”

“The biggest gun. The gatling gun.”

“Can you handle that?”

She clearly believed he could by the look on his face. So she stood up from her seat and proclaimed, with arms thrown wide, “Who wants whiskey and tequila?!”

Richie’s eyes snapped wide.

_Oh, **fuck**._

* * *

Okay. Whatever Richie had been before, it wasn’t drunk. _This_ was drunk.

He’d stopped counting after the fourth shot of tequila, and soon after that the very idea of a mixer with his whiskey was an insult to his iron-clad liver. True to her word, Beverly had a whole bottle just for him, as well as another two for everyone else. Beverly was definitely his favourite. Drinking never solved anything, he knew that, but it really did try its best. The others were drinking, Eddie was drinking, so why not him?

It occurred to him slowly, dripping into his mind like treacle, that Eddie was also drinking far more than the others. Was he trying to keep up with him? That was adorable. Or was he trying to kill something in him the way Richie was, too?

“Oh my god, this was the worst idea. You won’t find your answer at the bottom of a bottle, Rich, for God’s sake,” Beverly hissed in his ear as he grabbed the entire bottle of whiskey from its spot on the breakfast bar. Before he could twist the cap off with his teeth she took it away from him, shooting him a glower that almost penetrated the veil of alcohol. With a grumble and a snatch that was quite impressive for his lack of co-ordination, he reclaimed it.

“Maybe not _this_ one,” he said, allowing her to lead him over to the couch, “but y’never know. Pays to be fuckin’ thorough.” He flopped down bonelessly beside her, head knocking against her shoulder hard enough to make him wince. The entire lakehouse lurched, but he was used to it by now. He knew how to rein back that feeling, if only for a little while. He pressed the bottle to his lips and took a gulp that made him see stars. He couldn’t just wound it, the ache inside him. He had to kill it, dead, so it didn’t try to crawl up and take him over.

“Would you _stop?”_ Richie found his right hand empty yet again, the offending bottle being waggled in his face by an unimpressed Beverly. “You’re drinking like someone died.”

He leant his head back on the sofa and groaned, an elongated sound reminiscent of a dying whale. It was a testament to everyone’s state of inebriation that no one commented. “Maybe someone has,” he said, far louder than he’d wanted to as he stared up at the ceiling. “Rest in peace my fucking liver.” The lighting fixtures swam above him like jellyfish, darting and churning in the ocean that he could hear but couldn’t see.

He closed his eyes for a minute – just a minute, he swore – but when he opened them again, the room was empty. He was alone with nothing but the sound of the lake in the distance. He also had his jacket on again, somehow. Frowning, he looked around for the bottle he swore was in his hand. He found it half empty on the coffee table. It had a coaster underneath it.

As he squinted at it, Eddie’s voice came from the kitchen. “It’s just us, man. Party’s over.”

Eddie didn’t sound drunk. He didn’t sound sober, either. Swiping the whiskey bottle up from the table, Richie moved towards the kitchen, grabbing onto the breakfast bar to stop himself falling to the floor. He hadn’t drunk this much for a long time, and yet he still wasn’t numb enough. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be numb enough to deal with the sight of Eddie trying to spread peanut butter onto a plate with the back of a spoon. “Eds, what the fuck are you doing?”

“The knife’s gone funny,” was Eddie’s answer.

“That is the least of your problems, dumbass.” Figuring the breakfast bar was a friendly addition to the house, Richie pushed off and stumbled towards him, peering down at what he guessed was an attempt at: “Modern art?”

Eddie glared at him, though he swayed slightly on the spot. “Makin’ a sandwich,” he slurred.

“You missed out a pretty big ingredient, little man.”

“Ffffuck you, Trashmouth.”

The nickname hit like a kick to the ribs, but Richie recovered quickly. He had plenty of practice with that. He simply shrugged and turned to go. “Fine, guess I’ll go fuck myse-”

“Stay.”

Something snagged on his shirt, and when Richie turned back he saw that it was Eddie, his hand closed in a fist around the fabric like it was a lifeline. For a moment – just a moment – he saw desperation in Eddie’s eyes, a pleading that he hadn’t seen for a long time.

_Stay. With me. Please._

God, the guy was forty, how did he manage to make himself look so small?

He raised his eyebrows. “Stay?”

Eddie nodded. “Stay.”

Well. Shit. That was that. No way he was going anywhere now.

Eddie released him and mumbled, “Want to make a sandwich.”

“Think we’ve already established that, Eds.” Richie stepped away from him, willing the heat he felt ignite in his stomach to stay here. He moved to the other end of the kitchen, seeking out the bread with about as much luck as Eddie. “When did the others bail?”

“Not long. You’ve been asleep ages though. Started snoring like a rhino.”

“Uggghh. Pussies,” Richie scoffed, finally spotting the bread tucked into a corner. He raised two slices above his head with a cry of triumph and flung them Eddie’s way. Eddie caught one, but the other hit him square in the chest and flopped sadly onto the kitchen top. “They’ll be shouting at the neighbourhood kids to get off their lawns before too long.”

“We’re all getting too old for this, Rich.”

“The hell we are.” Richie took the bread from him and set them down on the plate, sliding it closer to him and reaching for the peanut butter. “Well, maybe, but that doesn’t mean we stop living.”

Dipping a clean spoon into the jar, Richie brought up a large dollop of it and put it straight in his mouth. He may have been staring directly at Eddie as he did it. There were no witnesses. It wouldn’t stand up in court.

Eddie’s look of pure disgust was a picture. “Oh, my mistake. You’re a manchild.”

Richie grinned. “Yeah, your mom fuckin’ loves it.”

“God, fuck you.” But Eddie laughed. It was short, and it cut off abruptly, but it was there. Richie hated how it felt like a little victory, like a chip away at the Eddie in front of him and the Eddie he knew before.

He shook himself and got a knife from the drawer. Eddie leaned in close as he spread the peanut butter onto the bread, their hips bumping together and shoulders jostling. Richie snorted and pushed him away playfully, but Eddie came right back into his space. Into his orbit. “This is all delightfully domestic,” he thought aloud, and Eddie shot him a dark, tipsy look. “I’m just saying. Me, making you a sandwich as you drunkenly lean on me. Next thing you know we’ll be going to bed and having the most vanilla sex ever.”

It was a joke. Of course it was a joke, he made those sorts of jokes all the time – so why did panic flare up in him the moment the words were out of his mouth?

Eddie drew away from him a little, like he could feel the discomfort rising in him. Thankfully, a joke was the only way he took it. “You took over sandwich making duty, asshole,” he pointed out. “I never asked you to help.”

“Oh, my mistake. I’ll let you get back to it with a spoon, shall I?”

“Ugh, kill me. You’re such a fuckin’ smart-ass.” It came out as ‘smar-ah’. Richie was charmed.

“I confess I’m a double threat,” he replied with a grin. “I’m also devastatingly average in looks, the ladies go wild for the combo.”

“You are many things, Tozier, but ‘average’?” Eddie considered it, bracing himself on the countertop with a sharp exhale. “That isn’t one of them. I said before. You need to… to stop putting yourself down like that.”

Richie found he didn’t have a smart answer for that. He just kept spreading, even though the peanut butter had evened itself out by now. He didn’t need Eddie telling him that. He was drunk and he was feeling sentimental, but that still wasn’t fucking fair.

He presented the finished sandwich with a flourish, grinning, and Eddie took it after a moment’s hesitation. After the first bite he let out a moan of pleasure that shot straight through Richie like a thunderbolt, and he was forced to take another swig of the whiskey bottle to quench the flame. “So good…” Eddie sighed.

Jesus Christ, if he was going to get riled up by a fucking peanut butter sandwich, Richie was not going to survive the rest of this holiday.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” he said, waving it away. “Don’t think I could watch you struggle much longer.”

“Haven’t had peanut butter in years,” Eddie mumbled, and Richie had to admit it was equal parts endearing and disgusting to see how quickly Eddie was shovelling the sandwich into his mouth. He already set about making another for him.

“How come?”

Eddie froze as though he’d said something he shouldn’t have. When he looked back to Richie, he tried to play it off as nothing. “Myra.”

“She won’t let you eat peanut butter sandwiches?” Richie frowned. “What is she, your mother?”

That landed hard; Richie noticed the way Eddie flinched, even through the layers of alcohol. “She watches my cholesterol,” he defended weakly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She… she’s just looking out for me. S’why she always cooks, too. Doesn’t want me eating anything with saturated fats or hydrogenated oils.”

Those alarm bells began to ring through Richie’s head as he thought back to what Bill had told him when he’d tried to leave. _“There’s a reason I organised this. He needs us, and Beverly made me see that he also needs you.”_

Richie swallowed painfully, trying to ignore it all, and patted Eddie on the shoulder haphazardly. “Yeah, well. I’ll make you as many of these goddamn things as you like whilst I’m here, got it? Just ask.” He handed him another sandwich and frowned as Eddie started devouring it immediately after finishing the other one. “And slow down, shit, no one’s going to take it away from you.”

Something else struck him, then. Maybe Eddie wasn’t drinking so much to forget something – maybe he was drinking so much because he _couldn’t_ back home. That realisation soured the alcohol in his stomach.

Eddie’s chewing gradually slowed and, once the tension came away from his shoulders, he sagged against Richie’s body with a sigh. “I know,” he murmured, the alcohol tinting it with an affection Richie didn’t deserve. “I know.”

“Oookay, bud. Come on, let’s get you comfy.” Richie helped manoeuvre the two of them back into the living room and deposited Eddie on the couch, sandwich and all. He made the sensible decision of setting the whiskey bottle down on the coffee table. After Eddie made a face, he added a coaster underneath it. “You should go to bed too, you know. I know I’m the best person to hang out with but you don’t wanna turn up dead to your own wed-”

“I had to fight for this, y’know that?” Eddie cut in, nursing the rest of the sandwich on his lap. Richie said nothing. Eddie sighed. “Myra, she… she didn’t want me to go anywhere without her.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“She’s my fiancée, Rich.”

“She could be the Queen of England and that is still bullshit.”

Eddie sighed again. “Maybe you’re right. I… I’m grateful. That you all came.” He glanced at Richie then, those dark eyes of his like a fucking puppy dog’s. “I’m glad you came.”

Uh oh. Dangerous territory. Abort, abort. Richie sank down beside him and shrugged. “Well, someone has to make peanut butter sandwiches at 2AM for you.”

“2AM?” Eddie swiped a hand across his face with a brief laugh. “Shit, I’ve not been up this late without sleeping since I was twenty.”

“Then you don’t know fun.”

Eddie squinted at him through his fingers. “I have a job that celebrates heart attack survivals more than birthdays, Richie. My idea of fun is… is watching Frasier reruns in bed and passing out at 9pm.”

“Incorrect.” Richie mimicked a game show buzzer. “You don’t know what fun is, license revoked. What happened, man?”

He felt Eddie’s gaze rake over him, take in his loud shirt and the battered leather jacket he’d had since he was in his twenties. Eddie was put together; not modern exactly, but the kind of person you’d see on a street and not look twice at. Unless you were the Losers. Unless you were Richie.

Eddie raised a brow at the scrutiny, blinking lazily. “I grew up,” he answered.

“I don’t like that accusatory tone, Edward.” Eddie snorted and tried to bat him away – he missed – but Richie wasn’t done yet. “So what if I didn’t grow up? Bet I have more fun than you, you little turd.”

“Hey.” Eddie frowned, jutting his lip out just a little bit. “Hey, now that… that’s not a fair bet and you know it.”

Richie tried not to let that sting him. “C’mon, Eds,” he urged. “You used to have fun, back when we were kids.”

Eddie grimaced, returning to planet earth for a moment as he remembered. “Oh, yeah, sure. Wading around in sewers and risking death by poison ivy was the highlight of my summer.”

“Not that. Although I did like to hear you scream.” Eddie was still sober enough to roll his eyes at that. “I mean the portable record player. Remember that?”

Eddie looked blank, but realisation quickly dawned on him. “The little red one…”

“That’s it!” Richie grinned. “I used to steal it from my sister’s room, brought it to the den our man Benjamin made?”

Eddie’s growing smile spurred him on, the memory coming to him in fits and starts. He found himself stumbling over his words in an effort to get them out in time. “W-we used to put on whatever records I managed to grab from her stash and dance like idiots, not the Lindyhop like Bev but just stupidly-”

“Yeah.”

“- and it was anything, literally _anything-”_

“Yeah.”

“- and I always had the better moves but you got 10/10 for overbearing enthusiasm, genuinely thought you were having a reaction to your meds one time, shit Eds we could have been cutting a rug to the theme tune to fucking Wacky Races but-”

And here he paused. Because if he carried on, he’d say something he wouldn’t be able to take back. He would say, _but it didn’t matter, because I was with you, and you were laughing, and shit do I like hearing you laugh…_

You know.

Like a fucking moron.

Eddie didn’t seem to notice. God bless alcohol, he’d already picked up his phone and started scrolling through it, a frown crossing over his face. Richie sighed. Attention span had never been a problem with Eddie before, but hey – Eddie was right, they had grown up. What did he know?

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you with the tales of our childhood years when you had a sense of humour and danced like you were having an apoplectic fit?”

“Beep beep, Richie,” he said, almost as a reflex, and the slurred thoughtfulness in his voice made Richie actually shut up. “Just… hang on. Asshole.”

There were probably a million messages from Myra on his phone by now, since he hadn’t looked at it for the whole evening. Richie assumed it was a long and rambling message to her explaining his every breath and bowel movement, and almost said it. It surprised him, therefore, when Eddie tapped his phone with a noise of triumph and music began to rattle out through its tinny speakers like glitter. It was a knee-jerk reaction that had Richie frowning at Eddie.

“Fleetwood?”

Eddie nodded, a small, jerking movement. “It was one of the songs, wasn’t it?”

“Probably. I don’t remember.”

“I do. Now you jogged my memory. And you’re gonna eat your fuckin’ words, Trashmouth.” With that, Eddie reached across to the coffee table and plucked Richie’s whiskey bottle from its coaster. Without any hesitation, he threw it back and took three deep gulps, throat bobbing as he did. Richie just stared, mouth slightly open, as he watched Eddie finish off the whiskey bottle he’d been casually swigging from all night. It was probably one of the hottest things he’d ever seen.

Eddie set it back down with a grimace and a burble of, “Might throw up,” before grabbing hold of Richie’s jacket and pulling him to his feet. “Gerrup, Tozier.”

“And, uh, where are we going?” Richie asked, his voice unnaturally high.

“Outside. Gonna show you I have moves.”

“Oh really?” Richie hated how squeaky his voice had suddenly become. _It’s the alcohol, only the alcohol, nothing else._ “You got moves?”

“More’n you.”

“I’m wounded.”

“Want you to… to dance with me like you did with Bev.”

“Uh.”

But Eddie was already pulling him out towards the back door, his phone bleating out the opening beat to _Everywhere_ at an obnoxious volume. Richie made no resistance, put up no fight; there was no way he was going to pass up watching Eddie Kaspbrak dance like a Dad. But then there was that one thought, small and terrified, that wondered if Eddie had gotten good at dancing - and perhaps he was making another very big mistake.

The chill of the night air smacked some of the drunkenness out of him. He looked out onto the wooden patio and in the direction of the lake, tasting it on his tongue. He couldn’t see it – it was far too dark, all natural light doused hours ago – but he could hear it. A gentle roar. Lakes didn’t roar, but he could hear it nonetheless.

Eddie set the song back to the beginning and turned to face Richie, swaying slightly. He looked a little faded, Richie had to admit, but the swaying actually seemed to work for whatever little shoe shuffle he had going on. He snorted, and Eddie shot him a filthy look. “Heyyy. Hey. You laughing at me, fucker?”

Richie gestured around them, still grinning. “See anyone else I could be laughing at?”

“Man, fuck you.” But Eddie grabbed hold of his arm and pulled. Richie allowed himself to be drawn in close, stumbling over his own whiskey-fuelled confidence, but suddenly he was in front of Eddie and he could smell his soap and this was _too close, too fast_ but Eddie was glaring at him the way he did when he was about to say something really stupid or really clever so what the hell was Richie _meant_ to do, just ignore that shit…?

“You. Come on. Dance with me like you did with Bev. Or… or like when we were kids. Put your goddamn money where your mouth is or… or…” Eddie gave a pause, for dramatic effect or due to thinking up the threat Richie wasn’t sure. “Or… I’ll kick your ass.”

Richie laughed. “Oh, Eds, is that a promise?” he simpered.

“Riiiiichiiiieee.”

“Fine, fine! Whatever you want.”

The whiskey burned in Richie’s veins, the bitterness turned electric, and he slid his hands down to Eddie’s, ensnaring them in a careful grip. He swung their hands together like kids in a playground, checking to see if Eddie was still glaring at him – he was – and started moving his feet in time with the guitar. Eddie followed his lead, his eyes flicking from his feet to Richie’s face and back again. “This is slow,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” Richie said, trying to stop his palms from sweating, “it’ll get faster once you know what you’re doing, Spaghetti. Can’t Lindyhop to this anyway, too slow.”

“Oh.”

After a few steps, Richie did speed up. He advanced, then retreated, advanced, then retreated. Eddie did the opposite, clenching Richie’s hands in a vice grip as though afraid he was going to fall if he let go. It wasn’t the best dance. It certainly wasn’t a Lindyhop. Richie’s thirteen-year-old self would be hanging his head in shame. Well, fuck him, he wasn’t sober enough to care.

Neither, it appeared, was Eddie.

He did this thing where he glared at his feet whenever they got a step wrong. He also did this thing where he was constantly tripping over himself and swearing under his breath. It was awkward, and stumbly, and Eddie started tripping Richie up by mistake and telling him to get his Bigfoot-ass feet out the way, but they were laughing about it and it felt _nice._ It felt good. Richie hadn’t seen Eddie laugh like that since he’d arrived at the lakehouse. He broke away from Richie’s grip and started swaying and bopping to his own imaginary rhythm, which had Richie doubled over laughing.

‘ _Do you hear me calling, out your name? You know that I’m falling and I don’t know what to say…’_

It made him think back to the den in the Barrens, when he would blast his sister’s stolen records at an obscene volume because the others were too wrapped up in their own heads. When sheer volume didn’t work, he danced as though every single limb was attached to something electric; it did the trick, even if it was because his friends wanted to get clear from his wildly flailing arms.

They cussed him out and pleaded with him to shut the damn thing off – Stan even threw things at him – but they would always join in eventually. They would jump about like crazies, throwing their arms in the air and singing along even if they didn’t know the words. Sometimes it was just shrieking.

_‘I'll speak a little louder, I'll even shout… You know that I'm proud and I can't get the words out…’_

Eddie was always first up, too. He’d lounge about on that dumb hammock and warn Richie about breaking bones, but by the end of the summer he was relinquishing his place the moment the needle hit the vinyl.

It was always those moments that stuck in Richie’s mind like faded photographs; moments where he knew he wasn’t much, but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe he could be _enough_. For the Losers, at least. And, honestly, what else fucking mattered?

The Eddie in front of him wasn’t far off from the kid left behind in the Barrens. This wasn’t the one who had met him at his car, finely clipped and controlled. This was the Eddie he missed; the Eddie that was stupid, the Eddie that laughed at every shitty joke he made even if it wasn’t that funny, the Eddie that was starting to throw his head into the music like he was trying to headbutt the invisible man, and _God_ Richie could see it. The kid that was poking through the gap that had never quite been filled, the one who second guessed absolutely everything except dancing with him, laughing with him, being a complete idiot with him.

Eddie reached out, took his hand and pulled him in like Bev had done hours before, switching places with surprising strength to the move. There was a moment, just a moment, where they brushed together; Richie almost stumbled under the weight of the whiskey and the ache he got from it. It was an old wound, opened up so it was sore and bleeding; every taunt muscle, every pump of his blood, every cell was focused on the man in front of him.

The man who was getting married in a month’s time.

‘ _You better make it soon before you break my heart…’_

This was a dance, Richie reminded himself firmly. Just a dance. This scene, out on a porch in June, wouldn’t last no matter how much he wanted it. It was fleeting, just another snapshot he could take with him when he flew back to LA to pore over when he felt weakest. A memory that, in time, would just be another wound. A reminder of what could’ve been, if he hadn’t been such a fucking coward.

But with Eddie’s wild laughter in his ears and the proclamations of Stevie Nicks in his ear, Richie did the only logical thing.

‘ _Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere…’_

He kept dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you. It's my favourite trope ever and I cannot resist. 
> 
> For reference, Hellzapoppin is a 1946 musical comedy with the most insane Lindyhop routine I've ever seen. Look it up on Youtube, it is quite something. My sister, who dances professionally, watched it and went "holy shit they better have insurance". But that is the music Richie and Bev are dancing to, although not quite as insanely as that. I found out later that this is the actual music/routine that King references in the Richie/Bev cameo in 11/22/63, and you'll just have to believe me on that. 
> 
> Everyone in the English speaking world knows what Fleetwood Mac song they're dancing to but I'm weak and it's one of the most reddie songs I know so. There were others, but Fleetwood won out.


	10. Eddie Kaspbrak learns how to want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's pov: he deals with the aftermath of the night before, talks to Myra whilst thinking through his memories, and takes a drive. He's always liked Mustangs. There's a lot of talk about bravery and fear, and wanting. Lots of wanting. 
> 
> cw for manipulative language and homophobic tones on Myra's part but it's relatively easy going so you should be okay. Another huge chapter, but it's necessary!
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and share it around! :)

Eddie would never have considered himself a dancer. He couldn’t think of a time that he had danced properly and enjoyed it, actually. When he was a teenager he’d gone to parties, but Going to Dances and actually dancing were two very different things. Eddie was always worried about getting things wrong; he saw what bad dancing looked like and he didn’t want to be one of the sorry saps that got made fun of. He fixated on making a fucking idiot of himself, which meant staying in the corner getting steadily drunk at nine out of ten parties he went to back then.

Unfortunately, however, he was very fixated on the idea of dancing with Richie _right now_.

He blamed the way the night turned on the wedding talk. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it in the first place, but when Richie joined in? God, he couldn’t shake the feeling he got when Richie talked about his hypothetical wedding to a hypothetical man. He’d stumbled over the details initially, stubborn as he always was to expose anything, but then Eddie had asked. He always had been a masochist.

And for some reason, Richie couldn’t say no to that.

When he caught Eddie’s gaze he held it, those eyes snagging like hooks in him. And then when he spoke, he wasn’t talking to the room anymore. He was talking to Eddie, only Eddie, no one else. It made Eddie want to fucking cry, right there on the couch beside Stan and Mike. Because in that moment, he was dumb enough to believe it was real.

He could see Richie, in a suit sobbing his heart out with happiness. He could see him taking a huge chunk of cake, frosted icing and all, and smooshing it into his husband’s face, cackling as he smeared it everywhere and leant in to lick that frosting off his lips. He could see it all – because _he_ was the one Richie was crying over, the one who could taste the saccharine icing on his lips.

Shit. Maybe what Richie wanted was what _he_ wanted too. But not with a hypothetical man. With a very literal, very material man.

And god, none of this was simple anymore.

He also blamed the alcohol for the position he was in, dancing like an idiot in front of a guffawing Richie, because it was easy. It made it easy to reason it away in the morning, and laugh it off when he was ridiculed for his dance moves. Eddie couldn’t help it; watching Richie with Beverly, imagining him with a faceless husband – it brought with it a stab of jealousy he didn’t like. _If only he could dance like that. If only he could have that_.

The Fleetwood Mac song was long gone, layers of other music burying it in his memory as he moved and swayed and stumbled along to the other songs blaring out from his phone. And then something slow, something with a delicate piano, came on. Eddie stopped dead with a wobble. A dim flash of panic went through him, muffled by the poor combination of wine and whiskey. It made thinking difficult. It made everything else difficult too.

Richie also stopped; he was eyeing Eddie’s phone like it was a snake _(no snakes in Maine, one of the only states without snakes and Myra still insisted on that ointment)_ and when he looked up, Eddie could see the thinly veiled caution in his eyes. God, he’d really fucked Richie up. He thought they were past it, but Richie was still so worried about being close, about being too familiar in case Eddie did another disappearing act on him. Eddie didn’t blame him.

He had to let him know it was okay. He couldn’t just stand there. So he walked over, though he lost his balance a little under the weight of the drink. He hadn’t been this drunk for a while. A glass of wine with dinner on occasions. The odd drink out with work. But nothing like this. He needed it. He deserved it. But he felt like a newborn animal on legs he wasn’t sure of yet.

He got to Richie in record time and took his hands before he lost his balance. They were big, Richie’s hands; they could fold over his own and eclipse them from sight. Eddie liked that they could do that – not that he’d ever admit to it, of course. Wouldn’t want Richie to get fucking smug.

His hands didn’t do that this time; they just stayed frozen, unsure. They even gave a jolt like Eddie’s touch came as a surprise, but he didn’t let go. He frowned down at them instead, marvelling at the creases in Richie’s palms and just how _soft_ they were. He didn’t know why he’d expected otherwise; why would Richie’s hands be rough, worn, bruising? He brushed his thumb against the pulse on Richie’s wrist, the slightest of movements, and it too jumped at the attention. Maybe something about him, maybe the sickness in him was contagious – or maybe, just maybe, the fire in him could actually be felt for a change.

He glanced up and met Richie’s eyes, still hiding that nervousness.“Kn-know any slow dances, Lindyhopper?” he asked. The whiskey was making him brave. The wine was making him want to cry.

Richie audibly _gulped_. Wow. Eddie made to draw away, but Richie grabbed for him. “Wait! You, uh, don’t know how slow dances work?”

He tried to stop himself, but the flush rose to the surface regardless. “No, asshole, I don’t. Unlike you, I didn’t have crowds of people lining up to be my dance partner.”

“It’s literally just Bev, Eds. And, well, all those people were missing out.” When Eddie looked quizzically at him, Richie added with a grin, “who wouldn’t wanna cut a rug with Norman Bates getting electrocuted?”

Eddie trod on his foot purposefully, making Richie yelp and clutch for it with a hiss. “God, don’t ruin it,” he mumbled, and before he could think too much he stepped into Richie’s space – well, _lurched_ was a better word for it- and as if on impulse Richie’s arms came around him.

“Woah, Eds, take it easy!” he bleated, but Eddie’s world was too busy spinning for him to pay much attention.

“Always…ugh…” He swallowed down the urge to throw up and swayed there with Richie, and after a moment Richie did the same. The dusty, earthy leather of his jacket stuck in Eddie’s nose, but he didn’t push his face away and complain that it was so old, so battered and past its use; instead he rested his face against it, if only to stop the world from moving quite so fast. Something about it was grounding.

This was like the hug in the kitchen, he thought mutely as they moved together, the one where Richie held him so tight he wondered if he’d ever be let go. He’d wanted to press his nose to Richie’s collar back then, breathe in deep and get high off the smell of him so he could remember. But he hadn’t, and now he was here just drunk enough to try it again. Myra’s words from her call drifted back to him then like unwanted guests.

“ _At least That Man isn’t there, that was such a good decision Eddiekins. He’s one of them, you know. Of course you do. They’re all the same. Makes my skin crawl. Now I don’t mind who does what in the privacy of their own home but to flaunt it in front of people like that. He’s nasty and sly and you don’t need him in your life.”_

That was what set off the fire in Eddie. Because no one spoke about Richie like that. No one. It wasn’t a nasty, sly man holding him. This man was careful; he was clumsy and gentle and so, so scared beneath the bullshit and the alcohol.

Just as scared as Eddie was.

“You always ruin it,” he breathed, but he didn’t step away. Neither did Richie. As they staggered around the porch together, Eddie wondered if Richie had the same thoughts running rampant through his head as he did. Soon, this dance, or something similar, would be one he was doing with Myra, crushed together with her family surrounding them on all sides and Eddie struggling to breathe. Myra would lean in close, bursting with happiness, and whisper that he was out of step, ask why he was going that way oh Eddie didn’t you practice I told you to practice we’re going to be a laughing stock do you even really love me…

Or maybe Richie was thinking, like him, that this sort of dance shouldn’t belong to anyone else but them. Let Beverly have the Lindyhop. Eddie wanted _this_ , this stupid and drunken shuffling hug of a dance. He didn’t need perfect. He needed… needed…

_Well. Go on, Eddie: what **do** you need?_

“Eds?” he heard Richie ask, his chest humming with the noise.

“Mm?” He cracked an eye open, not sure when they had closed.

“Hey man, still with me?”

Eddie blinked blearily up at him. The impression that came over him at that moment was that he was… heavy. Really fucking heavy. And also, somehow, light. Scratch that, really fucking light, too. His vision was swimming again, but not in the drunk way. It was in the ‘hey buddy you ain’t gonna be conscious for much longer wanna do something about that?’ way. But he didn’t want to do anything. He just wanted to stay right there, ride out the dizziness with Richie. He had a feeling Richie would do that for him, though he wasn’t sure why. _Because he’s your friend, dummy,_ he reminded himself.

But oh, Richie’s face was close, and Eddie was fucking locked on his eyes. They were blue – obviously, they’d always been blue – but being this close revealed little flaws in them. There was green in them too, just a little, a few flecks around the edges. One of them, the left one, even had little bits of brown in there. _Had anyone else noticed those before?_ He wondered as the corners of his vision began to darken and go black. _Had Richie ever let someone this close?_

…Would he let him get closer?

“Eddie?”

He opened his mouth to say something to that effect, but his words dried up. The dark was bleeding in faster now, racing like it wanted to beat him to it. His eyes flickered down to Richie’s mouth, his lips, keeping them in focus, chasing them as the dark chased him.

They opened. They formed words. They said, “Hey man, the music’s sto-”

Eddie reached up just as the dark overtook him.

* * *

“I collapsed?!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean, you’d drank a lot.”

“Oh god, oh god.”

“And I wouldn’t worry, Richie broke your fall.” 

“He fucking _what?!_ ”

Eddie’s head jerked up from its place on the breakfast bar – and he immediately regretted it. Bill snorted out a laugh opposite him and turned back to the coffee maker. “He was two shades to the wind too, so when you went down you took him with you. Had to get Ben to come rescue you.” He looked far too cheerful for someone who was clearly worse for wear. “Ben says you two looked, and I quote, ‘like upside down turtles stacked on top one another’.”

With a groan Eddie slumped back against the wood, holding his head as it pulsed nastily. To add insult to injury, his stomach felt like it had been punched. For a brief moment after he’d woken up, Eddie thought he’d gone back in time and was resting up after a particularly bad beating from Bowers. But no. He was forty, he was propped up against the breakfast bar in the very nice lakehouse he’d booked, and he was hungover. Really hungover. Or sick. God, maybe he was dying.

A white ceramic bowl skidded its way across the tabletop, and Eddie squinted suspiciously at its contents. Cheerios. Well, it wasn’t wholegrain toast, but it would do. He was more worried about what had _happened_ last night. Unfortunately, his hangover hadn’t given him the gift of amnesia, so he remembered a lot of it with startling clarity… except the most important thing.

“Have you, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Have you seen Richie this morning?”

God, was it still even morning? The light dappling them from the trees around the lakehouse seemed too bright to still be too early, but Eddie was used to waking up in the dark. Anything bright was confusing and disorientating for him. He wasn’t sure where Ben or Richie had put his phone, so he hadn’t been able to check.

“I think he’s out with Bev,” Bill replied, returning to the breakfast bar with two mugs of coffee. He handed one to Eddie, who received it with a sigh of relief. Nothing beat a hangover quicker. “They said they were going for a run?”

Eddie stared blankly at him. “I think I’ve seen Richie run like, twice.”

“Maybe he’s running _from_ Bev.”

“Ah. Now that sounds accurate.” Eddie took a sip. He was holding it together so Bill didn’t ask questions, but his own were too busy bouncing around his head. God, he shouldn’t have drunk so much. But he’d needed it; every time he thought of Richie’s face when he talked about the goddamn weddings, how lost he got in it, how he had fucking looked at him… well, Eddie had to drown it in him somehow. He hadn’t thought Richie would answer truthfully. He had been waiting for some dumb joke or some way of avoiding the question: so why had he been so fucking sincere?

_Simple. You asked._

Eddie hid his face in his hands and nearly screamed into them. Okay. Okay, he could work this out. It was simple enough: he just wanted to know if Drunk Eddie had managed to land a kiss on Richie before he passed out. All he knew so far was that if Richie was out with Beverly, the odds that he’d be telling her everything and laughing about it were pretty damn high.

“What time is it?” he asked in an attempt to distract himself from that upsetting conclusion. It was a safe question, after all. A sensible one.

Bill checked his watch, because _yes_ he was put together enough to have his watch on. “Uh, is there a good way to say 12 without you freaking out?”

Eddie nearly spat out his coffee. “12?!”

“Yeah. We didn’t want to wake you, we thought you needed the sleep.”

Ah, yes. The collapsing. Frowning into his bowl, he tried to rationalise. He was good at that. Pulling problems apart like car engines, he assessed risks one by one. He was great at isolating issues, avoiding poor decisions, resolving them. It wasn’t important that he had apparently not been listening to his own advice, but hey. He could do this. “I don’t pass out often,” he said matter-of-factly.

Bill slid into a seat beside him. “True, but you also haven’t drunk like that in a long time.”

“That’s not it.” When Bill’s brows rose to his hair Eddie explained, “I’ve never passed out from drinking, even when I was I college. I just get the hangovers from hell.” His frown deepened. “I have been feeling pretty tired lately, though.” He took a gulp of coffee, relishing the hit it gave him. “I, uh, almost collapsed in my room before. Bev was there.”

Bill sat up straighter. “She said you felt woozy, but…”

“Well, I did. Then I led down and I passed out.”

“Shit.” It was Bill’s turn to frown. “Do you want to go to a doctor?”

Eddie felt the bile rise up in his throat. The closest place was Derry. “No, no doctor.” He stared into the depths of his cereal. “I don’t want… want to bother anyone.” It sounded pathetic even saying it. “And don’t you dare tell Bev, she thinks I was tired from the drive.”

“Eddie,” Bill began, setting down his mug, “if you’re passing out…”

“Then it’s my medication,” he said firmly. It had happened before; when the dosage was the wrong amount, for example, or if he took anything on an empty stomach. Plenty of pills had tiredness and lethargy as side effects. Mentally sifting through the bag in his room, he stumbled over one in particular. The bottle he hadn’t packed. _‘Soluble in liquid’._ A chill rushed through him as the realisation hit. Maybe, he thought as he leant back from the breakfast bar, he wasn’t so paranoid after all. “I need to talk to Myra,” he said, more to himself than to Bill.

Bill picked up on it though. “Why Myra?”

“She… she handles my medication,” he answered, dipping his spoon into the bowl and scattering the little honey hoops inside. “She’s a nurse, remember?” He knew how it sounded. That’s why he kept his eyes on the cereal, chasing them around the bowl without really seeing them. He could have lied, but this was Bill he was talking to. How could he lie to Big Bill?

“Oh, right.” Bill took a large slurp of coffee and looked towards the hallway. “Makes sense.”

Eddie huffed. “Stop it.”

Bill feigned innocence. “What?”

“The thing you’re doing. Stop it.” He took a spoonful of cereal and actually ate it, then realised how hungry he was. Honey flavoured E-numbers be damned, he was demolishing the bowl. “You’re thinking,” he said, through mouthfuls.

“I’m always thinking.”

“ _Bill._ ”

“Fine, fine.” He drummed his fingers on the countertop, leaving Eddie to breakfast for a while, before eventually breaking the silence. “Sounded like you had fun last night.”

Eddie tensed. God, had Richie spoken to Bill about it too? How many of his friends now knew that he’d made a fucking fool of himself? “Okay, okay, laugh it up Big Bill. I was wasted. It’s hysterical.”

“I’m not laughing.” Bill leant in closer. “It feels like it was a good idea to have Richie here.” Wow, if Eddie wasn’t tense before he sure as shit was now. “I know you might throw things at me, but you’re happier when we’re all here together. I can just tell.”

Eddie glowered at him, but there was little heat in it. Bill was right, as always; though he didn’t realise quite how right. “Pass me the salt shaker,” he instructed.

“Why?”

“So I can throw it at you.”

Bill laughed. He didn’t pass him the salt shaker. Eddie supposed that was fair enough. They finished breakfast quickly, and Eddie made his excuses to get to his room to call Myra. Before he left, however, he turned back. “Uh, Big Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you throw out the orange juice I brought?” He swallowed dryly. “I think it’s off.”

* * *

He found his phone tucked neatly in beside his pill pots on his shelf. It wasn’t the place he’d leave it, but then _he_ hadn’t been the one who put it there. The idea of Ben and Richie in his room, getting him into bed (fully clothed, but without his jacket) and unintentionally seeing into his world of medications and paranoia sent him into a mini tailspin. What made him worse was knowing Richie had enough access to his phone to call Ben. What else had he seen? No matter how much he hoped it wasn’t so, he was certain Richie saw some of Myra’s messages, since her name was a permanent fixture on his notifications.

He opened his phone and called. She answered on the third ring. “Eddie.” She sounded sulky. Yesterday was clearly still fresh in her mind. “You didn’t call me this morning.”

“Hey,” he said. He sat down on the bed, carding his free hand through his hair. “Sorry about that. How was your morning?”

“Not bad.” She warmed a little at his question. She was unable to resist the opportunity of an open-ended question, or to inform Eddie of every little thing the neighbours were getting up to. “I saw Mrs Fitzherbert earlier, she’s gone and bought herself a puppy. Imagine, Eddiekins, a puppy! I’d go mad, I really would. I’m sure I’m allergic anyway but they make such a mess, oh she has no idea what she’s let herself in for.” She paused. “Why didn’t you call this morning, sweetie? I was so worried, especially since we had that little tiff last night.”

Eddie tightened his grip on the phone. Little tiff. That was all it was to her.

“Were you out with your friends again?”

He didn’t like the way she said the word ‘friends’: like it was a bad word, spat out on the pavement. “No, I was in bed. Asleep. Until about half hour ago.”

There was a longer pause. “Must be nice to sleep in; you’ve been so tired lately Eddiebear.”

“I passed out, Myra.”

That did it. “Passed out?!” she all but screeched down the phone at him. “Oh, _Eddie,_ that sounds awful! You should head home right away, I’ll call ahead and make an appointment with Dr. Springer and we can both look after you, don’t you worry about-”

“I’m staying here.” He said it so quickly that Myra skipped over it, continuing on with her ramble on lethargy and narcolepsy and what might be causing it until Eddie hung his head and blurted out, “Benzodiazepine,” like it was a magic word.

It did the trick. Myra fell silent.

“That’s what you’ve got me on, isn’t it? You’ve slipped me a benzodiazepine.” Still nothing. “Why, Myra?” he demanded.

“D-don’t raise your voice at me, Eddiebear,” she said.

“Please answer the question,” he sighed, getting up to reach his bag. “I found the bottle. Must’ve packed it by mistake. You put it in the orange juice, didn’t you?”

Myra spluttered wordlessly. “I, you, we, I d-don’t know what you’re _insinuating_ but-”

“Oh I think you do.” Eddie’s voice had a harder edge now. “You put them in the juice, just like you used to put those vitamins in the smoothies.”

She dropped the innocent act far quicker than Eddie expected. “I knew you might forget to take them if I didn’t do it that way.” She sounded almost petulant, like he had ruined the game.

“I shouldn’t be taking them anyway!”

“Eddiebear, please don’t be angry,” she pleaded. “I thought they would help with your… problem.”

Eddie suddenly went very cold. “What problem?” Silence. “Myra, _what problem_?”

“Your… your dreams,” she replied. “It sounds so silly when I say it now, but I thought they could help you sleep better so that you didn’t keep embarrassing yourself over this. You know, before anyone else found out.”

“And you thought the best way of doing that was putting me in a fucking coma?” he hissed.

“Language,” she corrected.

He bit his tongue. Jesus, that made sense. Orange juice never appeared at the breakfast table before the argument about the dreams. And then, like magic, up it popped, like it had always been there. Eddie had been drowsy, had the occasional nap in work, but he’d figured it was due to the overtime he was working to keep out of Myra’s hair, or his sessions at the gym he barely remembered. Wait – did he barely remember them because he was so out of it? A chill rushed through him, rippling like a wave. “How long?”

“Eddiekins-”

“How. Long.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she wailed. “Oh, Eddie, I was trying to help. You know I only ever want to see you happy and healthy, right? I just got so sad because those… those thoughts, those _urges_ , they don’t belong to you! They’re not good and you could get sick, really sick, and then everyone would know.” She hesitated, still a little tearful. “And what would happen if they did?”

A weight dropped into the pit of his stomach. It was nobody else’s business what he did. It wasn’t. He knew that. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. But the familiar prickling fear began to creep up on him, steadily, like poison ivy. “I…” he tried, but Myra got there first.

“Imagine what your friends at work would say. They’d be so uncomfortable, they wouldn’t want to invite you anywhere. And your _mother_ …”

“She’s dead, Myra,” Eddie had wanted that to come out as firm as his last few words had been, but it wheezed out of him pathetically like a broken instrument. “Sh-she didn’t know-”

“I just thought you’d like her to be happy for you. And she _would_ be happy, wouldn’t she, knowing you were marrying me?”

His mother hated everyone, Eddie wanted to say, especially those who threatened to take her boy away from her. She’d scared off a couple of old girlfriends before, and he’d never forgiven her for it. But she hated Myra the least; perhaps she saw something of herself in the rotund, jittery woman with her hand on his shoulder. She knew she would steer him in the right direction. She would know what to do. Eddie suppressed a shudder, but answered, “yes,” because he knew it was true.

“She’d be so, so upset if she thought you were… if she thought you _had_ …” An unintelligible noise covered the words she obviously couldn’t bring herself to say. “So you see, I thought it was for the best. I’m sorry, Eddie, if it’s upset you.”

Eddie realised he was shaking. He was stupid. So stupid. What had he expected, Myra to admit she was trying to poison him and cackle like a wicked witch in a storybook? That would make it easy. That would mean Eddie could call her an evil bitch and she didn’t love him, could hang up and not feel bad about it. But no. Myra wasn’t that at all. She was just a woman who loved him too much. And what did that make him?

 _A liar,_ he answered himself. _A cowardly fucking liar, who panicked and got himself into this situation and now he can’t get out of it._

He let out a long sigh, tried to steady his breathing. “I’m not taking the pills anymore, Myra.”

“Weren’t they helping? Just a little bit?” She sounded genuinely concerned. Eddie’s head throbbed.

He thought back to that evening, which had Richie’s eyes boring into him, making him a shitty sandwich, telling him he was allowed to have fun, dancing with him to fucking Fleetwood shitting Mac…

“No,” he said, as Richie’s laugh floated through his mind. “Not at all.”

A little sigh greeted his words. “Maybe you should try harder, sweetie. Or up the dose.”

 _Up the dose._ He shivered. “Maybe,” and here he swallowed, dryly, “Maybe I don’t want to try.”

Silence. Then, cold as steel: “Eddie.”

“Myra, listen-”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say right now, but you’re not thinking straight.”

“I don’t-”

“You’re not gay, Edward.”

The word, finally spoken, sent a thrill up his spine. The label, the moniker he tried so hard to avoid, was now there in front of them like a chasm he was too afraid to jump. The only thing he could think of to say was, “Why?”

“Because you’re with me,” she answered. “Because of what _we do_. Because you can… _do_ those things. And because you love me.”

Oh God, Eddie didn’t want to think about that. Sex was private and easily forgotten. The term ‘functioning heterosexual’ flashed across his mind which made him think of Richie, and he had the insane urge to laugh.

But she carried on, gentler. “For goodness’ sake, Eddie, get a hold of yourself. We’re getting married next month. Remember that? You were so excited a few weeks ago. And do you _really_ think someone else is going to want you the way I do? We’re not getting any younger. And you’ve never so much as looked at… you know. Before these dreams. It can’t be right.”

He wet his lips and said, “right,” like it was the only logical answer. Because it _was_ the only logical answer.

“Oh, Eddiebear, they really are getting you all confused,” Myra sighed. “This is what I was afraid of. What did you say to me before? They’re only dreams.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. He remembered the smell of Richie’s jacket, the crinkles at his eyes when he grinned. He quashed them. “Only dreams.”

He knew the fight was over. Myra chattered on for a bit longer abut her dress adjustments and how Eddie had to pick groomsmen and ushers before it was too late to get their suits tailored. Eddie gave her one word answers like he was agreeing on dinner reservations. By the time she rang off, he was sure she’d pushed everything out of her mind. Perhaps that was for the best. Getting married, being secure, having it all… he could do that. That was what was supposed to happen. And if Myra did tell them… if everyone found out… She was right, he was a fucking adult now. Time to step up.

And New York was a hard place to be on your own.

Crossing the room to his bags, he pulled out the pill pot he hadn’t recognised ( _“they’re enough to knock out a whole football team”_ ) and, without thinking, threw them across the room. “FUCK.”

The pot bounced off the wall but the lid cracked open, scattering the contents everywhere. Eddie didn’t go to pick them up. He left them, a constellation of pills across his floor. He instead lingered at his bag. Diving in, he rooted around his pots and packets and letters until his hand closed around something small and plastic. He balanced the thing in his hand, contemplating it with a fondness that smoothed out the barbs of anger. He started to breathe properly.

It was a ring, chunky and made of scratched and faded red plastic, clear enough to look like a jewel. There had been two plastic circles where a stone tended to sit, one inside of the other, with the alphabet arranged around them. They’d been gone a long time. Eddie held it to the light and saw the flaws in the plastic, the scuff marks and cracks, and the temper inside him quietened a little more. A Captain Midnight Decoder Ring. Or Ring of Power, whatever. There were far better ones that were actually worth something, gold gilded and sold in charity auctions from the 1950s. This one came from an 80s cereal box – from the breakfast table of the Toziers.

He remembered how Richie, aged 10, came bounding over to him and Bill during recess and presented it with a proud grin. “Eddie Eddie Eddie Bill Bill Bill,” he trilled, “Look what I gotttt.”

Bill’s eyes went wide. His stammer got the better of him as he exclaimed, “H-h-holy shi-shit Richie, is that a Dee-dee-decoder?”

“Hell yeah it is!” Eddie watched, transfixed, as Richie turned the little plastic dials to create a code and locked it in to keep it easy to remember. “Means I can write secret messages,” he said.

Eddie squinted at him. “What kinda secrets do you have?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ll let you borrow it if you want. Or you can get your own, you only gotta eat like three boxes of frosted choco-”

“I won’t,” Eddie said, heart already sinking. “Mom never buys those sorta cereals. Too much sugar.”

Richie wore the gaudy hunk of plastic all week, showed Eddie and Bill how to write ciphers the way he’d been taught by his Dad. Eddie never got the hang of it, but soon Bill and Richie were swapping coded notes during class like there was nothing to it. Eddie was gripped, for one of the first times in his life, with an inexplicable gnawing _want_ for one of those dumb decoder rings.

He hadn’t ever asked for anything before, mainly because it was pointless; Mommy knew best, and so he got what he was given. What _she_ thought he should want. But he wanted a Decoder Ring so badly. There was just something so attractive about secrets and codes; it was a freedom of knowing that a letter written in nonsense could hide anything he wanted it to. He could say anything at all, and not Mommy or his teacher or Mr Keene the pharmacist would be able to read it. It excited him, to think of having secrets as his own. To possess them.

So when the little red ring clacked down in front of his lunch tray a week later, Eddie was suspicious. “My turn to borrow?” he asked.

“Nope.” Richie slid into place beside him, knocking their elbows together. “That is a lifetime loan right there, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie gazed at it in disbelief. “Why?”

“Because you suck at ciphers and you need the practice.” Richie pushed it closer. “C’mon dude, don’t make it a big deal. S’just a hunk of plastic.”

Eddie knew Richie didn’t believe that. “R-right. Yeah.”

“See?” Richie flashed him a bright smile. “No big deal.”

But it was a big deal: it was the Biggest Deal. It was a freaking Decoder Ring! It was Richie’s latest Favourite Thing and he hadn’t even gotten bored of it yet. He’d just given it up. Just like that. Richie had saved cereal box tokens, sent away for it and everything. That was why Eddie had to do something too.

So he spent three nights with assorted pipe-cleaners and junk he found in an old craft box to offer a slapdash copy of a Ring of Power he’d seen on TV to Richie on the weekend, when they were playing in the Barrens alone. It was terrible, Eddie recalled with a smile. It had a gigantic orange gem and the pipe-cleaner was green, not red like he’d wanted. Essentially, it was no Decoder Ring. But when he handed it over, angry with embarrassment, Richie’s eyes got so big they almost escaped out of his twice-repaired coke bottle glasses. “Eds…”

“To replace the one you gave me,” he said in a rush. “I know it’s not the same and it’s not even Captain Midnight and it can’t decode but you got a good imagination so you can pretend it’s something else it’s a ring of power dude I wish I could get you the Decoder but I can’t save up boxes like you unless I start rooting around in the neighbour’s trash and-”

Richie already had it on his finger. He put it on the finger where wedding rings usually went, and that made Eddie’s 10 year old stomach feel a little funny.

“This is… the cutest and crappest present ever,” Richie joked.

Eddie shoved him over. “It’s not cute! Ugh you’re such an ass, if you think it’s lame give it back.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it!”

“No, screw you, give it back!”

“Noooo my ring of poweerrrr!”

And thirty years later, the one he made Richie was surely lost to time, but here his was. Eddie smiled to himself and tried to slip the ring on, but it was sadly made for child spies and wouldn’t go over his grown-up knuckles. It sat snugly halfway down his little finger, looking ridiculous and out of place, but he was still smiling. He wasn’t sentimental, not really, he was too practical for that, but the broken Decoder Ring? He didn’t know, it meant something. It kept a memory inside it better than any reel of film. The ring reminded him that he had friends who’d give up shit for him. It also told him that it was okay to want something- it was the first time he’d got the thing he wanted, after all.

And Richie was the one to give it to him.

Funny how things worked out.

 _What do you want_? He asked himself. _What is it you really want?_

A knock on the door sent the ring back into the depths of his bag after a frantic bout of tugging to get it off. “Uh, yeah?” he called out stupidly.

“So it’s true. FrankenEddie has arisen!” came Richie’s voice from the other side. “It’s….aliiiiive.”

Eddie froze. He was torn between flinging the door open and crawling under his bed and never coming out. He chose an in-between option; taking his time to get to the door to fight down a rising panic attack. He was good at compromise.

When he opened the door, Richie straightened up from where he’d been slouching against the doorframe. “Uh, hi.” His hair was wet and Eddie could feel steam from the shower he’d clearly just taken. Huh. Maybe he had gone running after all. “How you feeling?”

‘Delicate’ was the first word that came to mind. Eddie chose another. “Rough.” He gulped. “You?”

He waited for Richie to give it away. He would say, ‘dude, you were so drunk last night you kissed me, do I really look that much like your fiancée?’ and Eddie would say, ‘you look nothing like her and that’s why I did it.’ It didn’t come. Richie just shrugged. “Been better. Bev woke me at the ass-crack of dawn to go run.” He paused. “Well, it was 9AM and it was meant to be a run but I staged a walking protest.”

“Sounds like your idea of hell.”

“You got no idea.”

Eddie looked at his feet. “I… haven’t, I mean I never get drunk like that.”

“Eh. Typical Thursday night for me.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say to that. Richie wasn’t talking about it – why wasn’t he talking about it? Did that mean nothing happened? It was enough blackmail material for years. _He might not remember,_ he realised. God, why was he disappointed by that?

He was too lost in his own headspace to notice Richie leaning around him to look into his room until he asked, “Woah, why does it look like a 40s movie starlet’s dressing room in here?” When Eddie looked confused, Richie gestured to the state of his floor. “The meds, dude.”

“Oh.” Eddie stepped back from the door and retreated to where the pot lay by his bedside table. “That was, uh… that was me.”

Richie followed him into the room without an invitation. “They give you a shifty look or something?”

“No, just…” Eddie frowned, stooping to pick up the pot but making no move to tidy. “I called Myra.”

_About the pills. About how she’s apparently been drugging me so I’ll stop dreaming about you. No big deal._

When he looked back to where Richie was standing, he had a hand in front of his mouth, as if wrestling to keep his mouth in check. His expression was unreadable, but if Eddie didn’t know any better he would have thought Richie was going to hit him or throw up, or both. “Okay,” Richie said eventually. His voice seemed tight and uneven. “Okay, look. You need another inhaler, yeah? You lost yours at the lake.”

Eddie blinked, wrongfooted by the subject change. “It’s fine, I think I-”

“Wanna get outta here?” Richie’s voice was strange, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was saying. “I could drive you into town, pick up another puffer. Change of scenery, y’know?”

“Richie, I…” Eddie’s hands twitched by his sides. “That sounds good,” he said finally.

“We’ll take my car. Grab the shit you need, we can get to Derry in a half hour no problem. The others won’t even know we’re gone.”

And then Richie left the room as if it was about to burn down.

Eddie glanced over at his bag, where he knew he had his reserve inhaler zipped into a compartment, and got his coat.

* * *

The Ford Mustang looked even better in the daylight. Eddie hadn’t looked at it since Richie arrived for fear of exposing his obvious jealousy, but he couldn’t deny how much he did like looking at it. He made a joke about it being a midlife crisis car for the ages, but Richie just rolled his eyes and said his mom never complained about the rides he took her on. That earned a smack, and a chortle from Richie.

Mustangs, in Eddie’s opinion, were aptly named; they were temperamental, were the spirit of the American car industry, and were prone to expensive breakdowns. He didn’t know horses, but he guessed some of that made sense in relation to the nation’s wild horse population.

“Right, buckle up buckaroo,” Richie said as he started the engine. “Enjoy the gallop.”

“Just drive, you idiot,” Eddie said.

Richie drove. It was smooth going out of the forest paths, and once they hit the main road Richie let the Mustang surge to a speed that hit just under the limit. Eddie had a feeling that was for his benefit.

He settled back into the plush leather seat and snatched looks at Richie when he could. He looked nice today. His leather jacket went wherever he did like it was sewn to his actual body, but the shirt underneath wasn’t quite so obnoxious. It was a kind of burgundy colour, with little black lizards scrambling across the creases. It wasn’t totally acceptable, but it would do. He’d also tried to shave recently, but there were still patches of stubble visible on one side of his face just under the jaw.

Eddie forced his eyes away. This had to stop. This was Richie, for crying out loud. He tried to focus on the road – and noticed something familiar dangling from the rear-view mirror. He was ready to scold Richie for obstructing his view, but the frayed green pipe-cleaner stopped his rant in its tracks. He reached out for it, just to make sure, but it was. His shitty ring.

Richie cleared his throat. “Oh, shit, uh, that old thing.” Was he… flustered?

“You kept it,” Eddie said absently, fiddling with the knots and loops he’d done so expertly as a kid.

Richie didn’t say anything for a while. When he did, he sounded as though he was picking his words carefully. “What can I say, Eds? When a tiny kid with a fannypack and a mouth like a foghorn gives you something he made with his own two tiny hands, you keep it.”

“Shut up.” Eddie glanced at him. “Really?”

Richie shrugged. “Sort of a good luck charm. It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.” Eddie let go of it, deciding to give Richie some mercy. “What happened to your face?”

“Hmm?” Eddie pointed to his own jaw to demonstrate. “Oh, I miss a spot?”

“Several.”

“Aw, fuck. That’ll be ol’ squinty’s fault.”

“Come again?”

Richie pointed to his left eye whilst keeping his sights on the road. “This bad boy. Practically double-glazed on that lens, it is fucked when I’m not wearing glasses.” He took a left. “Got the wonderful Mr Rogan to thank for that.”

Eddie froze in his seat. “Tom?” he questioned. Richie’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Bev’s ex, Tom?”

“The very same, young Spaghetti.”

Eddie’s eyes widened in horror. “He hit you?” Richie shut his eyes, until Eddie barked at him to keep them on the road. “Was this when you went to live with Bev for a month or so?”

“I asked for it,” was Richie’s short answer.

“I’m sure that’s true, but go on.”

Richie’s mouth tilted up in a half smirk. “Alright, fine. I’ll paint you a word picture. In answer to your question, yes it was when I was living with our wonderful Miss Scarlet. She’d just left Tom, was scared he might try to come back. Enter your friendly neighbourhood Trashmouth. I said I’d stay until she sorted out another place and in case the human shitstain came back, because I’m just that nice.” His smile faded. “Only said shitstain _did_ come back, and our brave hero did something heroically stupid.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. He just stared at him, willing him to continue. Richie swallowed painfully but carried on. “I mean… jeez, Eds, he was… saying stuff. Disgusting stuff, about Bev and about me and what we were doing together. Guy has a vivid imagination, I’ll give him that.” His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled now. “He, uh… tried to get to Bev. I got in the way.” He chewed his lip. “And I, uh, may have also punched him in the face and broke his nose.”

Silence.

“Actually, I sort of screamed at him and then punched him,” he corrected.

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathed.

Richie glanced at him, and held his gaze.

“Eyes on the road,” Eddie instructed. Slowly, Richie looked away. “Then what happened?”

“Got into a fight,” he said. “Bev called the police, they took Tom away and then she took yours truly to the ER.”

“The ER?” Eddie parroted.

“Yeah, Spaghetti, the ER.” Richie gave a weak smile but obediently kept looking ahead. “Tom kicked my fucking ass, dude. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Never punched anyone before in my life. That was just luck. I got in about two more, but he rolled me around that apartment like a new carpet.” He tapped the left lens of his glasses. “No scars or lasting damage, except this bastard. You should’ve seen the black eye, it was pretty impressive. Got so many sympathy coffee from baristas.” He laughed, hollow. “Should walk around looking like a human punching bag more often. Does a friend of mine a world of favours back in LA.”

Christ. Tom Rogan could buy out every one of the comedy clubs Richie performed at plus Eddie’s insurance firm and have spare change – and Richie had socked him right on the nose.

Eddie slumped back in his seat, stunned. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“It’s whatever.” Richie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. He was still reliving it, battling with the ghosts. “It was years ago. You can barely notice with my glasses on. Sadly my wish to be a speedreading fighter pilot was over before it began, but-” He laughed. Eddie didn’t join in.

“You’re lucky you didn’t go fucking blind in that eye, man. What were you thinking?”

“He was going after Bev, Eddie.” Richie took his eyes off the road again to stare at him, almost glaring. “There was no fucking way I was going to let him hurt her. I’d do it for – well, any of you.”

Eddie sat there in silence. Richie always had the look of a prey animal about him when he was serious, the jokes and jibes just a front for the real him. He only let that side of him – the insecure, anxious, unsure kid his body hid from everyone – show to those he trusted. He showed the Losers. He showed Eddie. But Richie wasn’t a coward – far fucking from it. He came out to them after waging war with himself for years. He punched Tom Rogan in the fucking face. He came to a lakehouse because he hoped he’d have chance to speak to the asshole who cut him off without an explanation.

 _Shit,_ Eddie thought as trees whizzed past him, _Richie Tozier has the bravest heart of all of us._

The urge, alien and new, came to him to reach across and take his hand, the one resting on the gearstick; he could imagine skimming his fingers over the knuckles, threading their fingers together so he was holding the gearstick too. He even thought about bringing those connected hands up to his mouth and kissing every one of those knuckles delicately. One by one. So Richie knew.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because he was forty, and he wasn’t a catch, and why the hell would Richie want that? He sighed. “God, fuck, Richie. If I had half the guts you had, I’d…”

“You’d what?”

He bit his lip. He bit it hard. He was too old for this shit. “Nothing,” he answered. _Coward, coward, coward._

Richie snorted through his nose. “Seriously, Eds? You kidding? You’re fearless, ever since we were kids.”

“All kids are fearless,” Eddie replied, casting his gaze down to his shoes. “Then we grow up and realise what there is to be scared of.”

“What are you scared of?”

He closed his eyes. “Everything.”

Richie, surprisingly, went quiet at that. The word hung between them, swaying like they had the evening before. Eddie kept his eyes closed. Richie couldn’t say anything because he couldn’t argue with him. He knew he was the dictionary definition of ‘scared’. He put a hand over his face even though his eyes were still shut, and scrunched them tight. Fuck, he didn’t want to see or hear anything remotely resembling pity from him. Pity wouldn’t change shit. It would just make him feel like the kid stuck indoors again whilst his friends were out playing because it was pollen season.

The ‘everything’ meant feelings, too. It meant wanting something but never asking for it – or wanting something he knew he couldn’t have. And he wanted. It hurt to want like this.

“Okay,” he heard Richie whisper. “Fuck this.”

He opened his eyes again when he sensed them turning off the main road. Richie was pointedly ignoring the signpost that was pointing ahead to Derry. He frowned. “Uh, Derry’s that way, Rich.”

“I know.” He changed gear as the road began to arch into a hill. “Making a detour.”

“Richie, wha-?”

“Juuuust wait.”

So he did. They took the hill gallantly, the Mustang purring under Richie’s capable care. For some reason, Eddie assumed he’d treat cars pretty badly; messing up the suspension by flying over potholes, for example, seemed like a very Richie thing to do. But he handled it well; he kept it careful instead of hitting the gas the whole way up and ignoring the car’s groans of protest, and even patted the dash affectionately as they topped the rise. Huh. So much for use and abuse.

Once they reached the top Richie turned right, and they were met with a large road fringed with trees. It was completely empty. It was probably usual for a place like this, but for Eddie who was used to endless streams of traffic he would have been more likely to spot a bear. Richie slowed the car to a stop as they got onto the flat and killed the engine. He turned to look at Eddie, expectant. Eddie stared right back.

“Oh my god you’re going to murder me aren’t you.”

Richie burst out laughing. “Fucking hell, no, I’m not murdering you.”

Eddie wasn’t 100% sure he believed him. He had enough shit on him to warrant homicide. “Have we gone through a time loop?” he tried.

“This is not a DeLorean, dear Eduardo. Wrong again.” He mimicked a gameshow buzzer, like he had when they were drunk. Would he make the same joke twice? “Get out the car.”

Eddie gaped at him. “Wh-what?”

Richie chuckled. “Jesus, your face. Come on, I just admitted to you I can’t fight, you’re safe in the knowledge you could put me down.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but as Richie stepped out of the car and slammed the driver’s door, he unbuckled his seatbelt. They met each other at the Mustang’s bonnet, still warm from the drive. Richie had his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, as he often did, and Eddie held onto nothing. He waited.

Richie looked down at his feet, taking a deep breath as he seemed oddly- smaller. Nervous. He didn’t look up as he said, “For the record, I don’t think you’re scared of everything. And even if you are, who fucking cares, dude? At least you feel _something_.”

Eddie said nothing. Richie continued, “You’re more of a grown up than I’ll ever be, Eds, and that takes different kinds of guts. Look at you: got yourself the job, the house, the…” He trailed off with a shrug.

“The marriage?” Eddie finished for him. He swore Richie winced, but it could have been a short nod.

“The… marriage,” Richie said. “Exactamundo, Spaghetti.” He smiled weakly at his shoes.

Eddie took a step closer. “Richie?”

His eyes came up, those blue eyes with flecks of green and flaws of brown. He looked in pain. Eddie decided to ask something brave. “You don’t like talking about my wedding, do you?”

There it was. That was definitely a wince. Richie’s eyes went all over him like he was trying to find an answer pinned somewhere on his body. He seemed… lost. Like he needed Eddie to find him, the way he always did. And Eddie wanted to find him, too. He just didn’t know where to start looking.

But then the expression changed, and the comedian mask slipped on. “Didn’t you know? I’m allergic to commitment. Guess I should grow up.”

Eddie let his expression sour. “That’s a physical impossibility. You’d die.”

“Probably true. You, on the other hand, need to have some fun before it kills you.” With that, he produced the keys to the Mustang from his pocket and jangled them together.

Eddie watched those keys dance and felt like a dog having a steak waved in front of its nose. “R-Rich, I dunno… what about insurance?”

“Fun has no insurance, Eds Spagheds.” Richie’s grin was more genuine now, clearly amused at how Eddie was practically drooling at the idea. “This road is a big ol’ circuit, and I bet no one really comes up here unless the main road’s closed. Plus, this baby’s a rental and I can pay damages.” He threw the keys. Eddie fumbled for them but didn’t dare let them hit the ground.

“You really thought of everything, huh?” he said, straightening up.

Richie grinned. “What can I say? Someone once told me I was a smartass and I took it to heart.”

Then he was heading closer, and Eddie looked up from the keys to see him coming. He reached out a hand for him without thinking, but Richie brushed right past him with nothing more than a pat on the shoulder. It was nice. It was comradery. It wasn’t really Richie. “C’mon dude, get in. I could see your hard-on for this baby from a mile away.”

The place where Richie touched him burned as Eddie clenched the keys tight in his hand and headed to the driver’s side. He got in and immediately started adjusting the seat, mainly so his feet could actually touch the pedals. “You’re a fucking yeti,” he remarked, just to take the edge off. “Why are you so tall, what the fuck.”

“The question, dear Edward, isn’t how tall I am but you short _you_ are.”

“Fuck you, I’m not short.”

“Little man.”

“Richie.”

“Tiny king.”

“God, it’s like talking to a fucking toddler.”

“We driving or what?”

“Gimme a minute.”

It had been a while since he’d driven a car like this. It growled as he started the engine, sending a thrill through him as he adjusted the mirrors one final time. The first thing he did when he got out from under his mom’s feet at eighteen was buy a car. He wanted to hit the road and not look back, go as fast as he liked without her voice ringing in his ear. His first car was a Dodge Intrepid, and he drove that sucker into the ground. This was completely different. Mustangs, like horses, were made to run. He gripped the wheel tight and turned to Richie, who was sat there with a smug grin on his face.

“Eds, your car boner is showing.”

“Gross. How fast does this go from 0 to 60?”

Richie looked blank. “Uh, dunno. I’m not a car person.”

Eddie hovered his foot over the gas. “How fast can I go?” he asked.

“As fast as you fucking want, dude. No cops around here.” He leaned a bit closer, as if sensing Eddie’s hesitation. “Look, Eds, go as fast or as slow as you-”

Eddie punched his foot down.

The Mustang’s wheels screeched as they spun for a moment, before gaining traction and shooting them forward like a cannonball. Richie’s words turned into a curdling shriek as Eddie kept on the pressure. The Mustang responded in kind, its speed dial tipping to 40, 50, 60… and shit, it had been _4 fucking seconds_ and Eddie wasn’t going to stop at that. His heart slammed into his ribs as the Mustang roared faster and faster, each new speed cresting over him like a wave until the speed dial wobbled at 100.

Shit.

He was fucking going 100 miles an hour in a Mustang, and Richie Tozier was next to him screaming like a kid on a rollercoaster and he should be scared, really scared, but he wasn’t. He felt alive.

He whooped loudly, his whole body sparking as they tore up the road, and he let it out. The anger from Myra, the frustration of wanting something, the overwhelming surge of…

Something.

Something he couldn’t even think about too long.

The Mustang roared its approval as he fed it more, letting out a childish laugh as he went. Too soon, the corner loomed. He let the car slip back to a slower pace to take it calmly, before slamming the gas again on the straight. Richie was still screaming.

Eddie did a full lap before he felt ready to slow down, and for most of it he had Richie caught between cheering along with him and screaming that they were going to die and no one could pay off his health insurance. When they eased them to a stop and killed the engine, he finally turned to look at Richie. He was clutching onto his seat so tightly he’d almost pierced the leather, and had gone so rigid Eddie actually thought he might have killed him. But then he blinked, and relief settled around him.

“And that,” he drummed his hands on the wheel, “is how you drive a Mustang.” He couldn’t stop grinning. He felt electric. He felt like, drunk or sober, he could do anything right now. He could even reach across his seat, grab hold of the back of Richie’s head and-

“I think I pissed myself,” Richie squeaked.

Eddie burst out laughing, resting his head against the wheel as they rocked through him like aftershocks.

“I think I need to write a will.”

Eddie was still laughing. Oh god, it hurt to laugh so much.

Once Richie managed to prise his hands free from the leather he started to join in. “Seriously man, I did not expect that shit, holy hell I thought you’d go around like a grandma talking about safety procedures but-”

“You don’t drive Mustangs like you’re a grandma!” Eddie said through giggles. _Giggles._ “You treat them with respect, let them loose.”

“God, you have such a car fetish please talk dirty to me,” Richie purred. Eddie smacked him with a loud but affectionate, “beep beep asshole,” before Richie asked, “You wanna drive to town?”

Eddie blinked, his laughter falling away. “Are you sure?”

“Go for it, you’re already in the driving seat and I think I lost all my bones. Besides,” his expression softened, “you’re getting a lot more out of this than I am.”

“Shut up.” Eddie started the car. He got back to the turn off that brought them back to the freeway. “Hey, Rich?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “For letting me be a kid.”

Richie smiled back. “No problem, Eddie. Always wanted to be a racing driver, didn’t you? I never forget these things.”

Eddie. Not Eds, or Spaghetti, or whatever other weird nicknames he could give. Eddie.

“Feeling braver now?” Richie asked, raising a brow as they reached the road to Derry.

Eddie focused back on the road, the signs pointing correctly this time. Myra’s words, her promise that no one would want him the way she did so why try, melted away from his mind. They were replaced by Richie’s shrieking and cheering as he drove a car into the ground. “Yeah,” he said, with a smile, “I’m feeling brave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It must be said that I definitely wrote this with my UK brain in mind, as Eddie wouldn't be able to see the right side of Richie if the driver's seat was on the US side. Let's just say this Mustang is a weird European version and leave it at that. 
> 
> I know very little about cars can you tell :')
> 
> And the events of The Evening will be addressed, don't you worry...


	11. Richie Tozier feels seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's pov: a return to Derry (for an inhaler). Eddie traumatises some children, Richie gets a phonecall. There's some home truths here too, and some things they won't be able to take back...
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and share it around! :)

Staring out the back window of his parents’ old station wagon at sixteen, watching his hometown disappear into a dot on the horizon, Richie had told himself that nothing would make him step foot on Derry soil again. He was leaving behind that way grown ups looked right through you, and how everyone in that godforsaken town seemed to see something in him he couldn’t understand. He was shaking loose. He was getting the fuck outta Dodge, and that felt incredible. He didn’t want to feel bad for the ones left behind, because they’d get out too. They had to. Mike, Ben, Eddie, they’d all go to college or get jobs someplace else, because they wanted to get out just as much as he did. He conveniently forgot about how he’d begged his parents to take Eddie with them the night before they left, in a moment of weakness, because that hurt way too much. They would see each other again. He was sure. 

But in Derry? No siree. No way jose.

At least, that’s what he’d thought, anyway. It turned out that Eddie Kaspbrak in need of an inhaler 24 years later meant Richie was getting chauffeured right down Main Street, under the watchful eye of that godawful Paul Bunyan statue on the green. He had the innate urge to sink down in his seat like a guilty kid. There were so many eyes here. So many people to look at him. So many people who would just _know._

He should have suggested Bangor, he thought faintly. Bangor wasn’t a bad little town, and had way less repressed childhood trauma. But Bangor was also an hour away, and Eddie needed an inhaler. More than that, though, Richie had to get out, needed to listen to that urge to bolt.

He did slump down then, his mind drifting back to that room despite knowing it was a bad idea. He bit his lip hard, drawing blood as a diluted dose of anger from the lakehouse washed over him. He’d had to press his hand over his mouth to stop it coming out that morning, and he almost did the same in the car. Eddie had come to the door with that hunted look, like he was ready to jump out the window if Richie said the wrong thing. He hadn’t wanted to ask, but he had to. The pills were all over the place, he couldn’t ignore that shit. He had to know. And when Eddie cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder at him, it sounded painful.

_“I called Myra.”_

Oh yeah? Well, Myra could get in fucking line because she wasn’t there, it was the Losers’ turn with him now. It was Richie’s turn. His only turn. Maybe even his last turn?

He wasn’t sure what was going on and wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but coming back into the lakehouse with Beverly and being faced with a, “we have a problem,” Bill Denbrough was enough to send those alarm bells ringing like there was a house on fire. And Richie knew what he had to do. He had to get Eddie out before something got destroyed, figuratively or literally.

_So **Derry** was the best you could come up with? Great choice, champ. You always were one for excellent decisions._

Richie was sure he would feel that impending sense of doom you only feel when you return to your childhood torture factory of a town; a claustrophobic, crushing sensation of the backroads and alleyways folding in around him, trying to force his adult self into his scrawny teenage body. To his surprise, he felt none of those things. If anything, he felt like the town was shrinking around _him._ It was moving to fit him in, not the other way around. Huh.

He chanced a look at Eddie and saw how tight he gripped the wheel of the Mustang, how dead set he was on looking ahead and at nothing else. Ah. Not just him, then. For some reason, that made the town seem even smaller. Because sure, _he_ was having a minor crisis, but Eddie was having one too and that was way more important.

Eddie stalled when they parked up, and once the engine was off he just sat there, hands still glued to the wheel and a muscle in his jaw twitching with how hard he was clenching his teeth. Richie wasn’t sure if it was Derry doing this or whether the memory of whatever he’d been speaking to his fiancée on the phone for was coming back to bite. But he wasn’t going to let him spiral. Nope. Nu-uh. No way. It was remarkably easy to shove aside his fears for the moment, moving them away to deal with later. He focused on Eddie. “Hey.” When that failed, he gave him a sharp flick on the shoulder.

Eddie flinched. “Ow! The fuck, man?”

“You were having a face journey.”

“The fuck I was!” Eddie rubbed his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, yeah, sure, because normal people sit in a car like they’re welded into it.”

“Ugh, shove off.” Eddie was still rubbing his shoulder, but it was better. He was moving, coming back to earth. Richie could do this shit, he’d done it enough himself. “S’just… weird. Feels weird being back here.”

“Hell yeah it feels weird,” Richie agreed. “But we got this.” He faltered. _Did he got this_? “Right?”

Eddie’s eyes met his. They were so fucking _big_ , Christ. Richie thought about Eddie’s eyes a lot, an unhealthy amount actually, but he couldn’t get them out of his head. When Eddie looked at you, he saw through you. Through all the bullshit and the armour you so carefully wrapped around yourself. Shit, Richie only hoped he couldn’t get to the softer, squidgier parts even he wasn’t sure existed. “Gulliver’s Travels,” he blurted out, as the name came to him.

Eddie blinked, startled. “What?”

“Gulliver’s Travels. You remember that shit? We read it once, for a book report.”

“How you remember this stuff and not the lines to your own ghostwritten act is astounding.”

“Okay, A. fuck off and B. fuck off. I remember because I couldn’t be bothered to read it and Stan gave me the wrong answers. Telling Mrs Darnton that Gulliver was looking for Sarah Connor was not a high moment in my academic career, _Edward_.” Eddie snorted out a laugh, and Richie chalked it down to a point on the scoreboard of Richie vs Fear. Nailed it. “Anyway, _asshole who laughs at my pain,_ there’s the bit with the little people, the Calico Critter looking motherfuckers-”

“Did you ever read the book?”

“No and I never plan to,” Richie answered crisply, “I _mean_ , where they’re all so small Gulliver walks around feeling like a giant?” He waved a hand at their general surroundings. “That’s what this shit feels like.”

To his credit, Eddie did seem to get it. Even if he was staring at Richie like he was crazy. “Uh, sure.”

“Uh huh.” Richie nodded. “So, we getting out?”

Eddie hesitated, caution clear in his eyes, but then he nodded too. “Yeah. We’re getting out.”

“Atta boy, Spaghetti.” He beamed as they got out the car together, their identical door slams rocking the car on both sides. “Remember, we got this.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, fiddling with the keys in his hand, “we got this.”

Richie wanted nothing more than to take those keys and replace them with his own hand, squeezing gently to reassure him, but the very thought of it felt viscerally wrong. It made him hold back, keep his distance as they stood in front of the car staring out at the world they’d left.

_You’re getting too close, my man, too fucking close, and they’ll see you and they’ll chase you and Eddie will chase you too…_

But then Eddie stepped closer, bumping their shoulders together like he had back in the lakehouse kitchen, and Richie’s world went off-kilter. He offered a wobbly smile, and Eddie patted his arm softly. “Come on. Pharmacy. This was your idea.”

“And my ideas are… good ones?”

“Don’t push it.”

They set off. Richie kept his hands in his jacket pockets as a gentle reminder to himself to _not touch not touch touch bad_ but it didn’t stop him from sticking to Eddie’s side like he’d imprinted. He was glad Eddie didn’t mention it; he actually seemed to like it, leaning into Richie’s personal space almost unconsciously when he deemed someone too close or a noise too loud. They were practically walking on each other’s feet. Richie could laugh at the idea of _him,_ Richie Tozier, being someone that felt safe to Eddie. So much for the condemned building. It was… nice, though. Being relied on. He could get used to it.

Derry’s Main Street hadn’t changed all that much since he’d last seen it out the window of that station wagon. It would have been better if it had changed, Richie figured; if it was unrecognisable, reshaped and remoulded, the memories would lose their way in the new developments and bulldozed gaps. But instead they lingered. Outside the candy store, waiting for Ben to stop buying up all the Jolly Ranchers in the place; sitting on a town green bench yo-yoing and asking Bev to go to the movies because a boy and a girl going together made it a date; punching a machine in the arcade when it failed to give up its tokens and gazing at the hands of a helpful, beautiful boy before Bowers-

Oookaaay, that was enough of a trip down memory lane, thank you.

All of these little ghost Richies skipped and twirled around him, tripping over his feet until he was sure he was going to trip up too and-

A sudden shove nearly lost him his kneecaps on a fire hydrant. “What the-EDDIE.”

“You stood on my heel like twice, dude!” Eddie was frowning at him, but he wasn’t mad. He looked concerned. Uh oh. Not _concerned._ Richie was in his own head and fighting to get out, and Eddie saw that. It was likely – very likely, actually – that Eddie knew him as well as he knew Eddie. That was – mildly terrifying, honestly, but Richie found himself oddly okay with it. “Anyway,” Eddie said, looking slightly harassed, “I said that the others should’ve come too. There’s a lot here, man. A lot.”

Richie understood. “I mean… I could call them? Sure they got nothing better to do. I think Bill was going to try writing more of his book today, so letting him out would probably be an act of mercy.”

“No, no, don’t do that,” Eddie said in a rush, even before Richie got his phone out. “I… I’m fine with it just being us. Y’know?”

Oh, Richie was _fucked._ “Right. Okay. Yeah. Cool.”

“Hey, the pharmacy.” Eddie pointed out the familiar building sandwiched between what had once been a laundromat and was now a diner, and a hardware store that was still clinging on.

Richie sighed. “Ah, your second home.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

“What? Ben had the library and you had your placebos and hypochondria. It’s a quirky hobby, but I can dig it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Ain’t I just?”

They crossed the road. Richie noticed a small group of kids loitering outside, the way he used to wait for Eddie when he had to go get a prescription. There were four in total, and as they approached he saw them actively square up. Richie slowed down. He had a knack for identifying other Loser Kids on sight, but these didn’t look so Loser-y. He did however look like he’d catch something off them. Maybe fleas. Or mumps. He bristled. _Ugh. Youths_.

He zeroed in on the clear ringleader, a greasy little mop blonde with a busted lip and a slight squint. He was probably about eleven. The _worst_ age, the age where you thought you were the shit because you were starting to realise adults didn’t know everything. He stopped in front of the little greaseball and tried plan of attack number one: the Polite Adult. “Hey, kid. Can you scoot?”

The kid gazed up at him, eyebrow raised. Oh, he was _not_ going to fall for plan of attack number one. “Password?” he asked, in a mocking, nasal voice that reminded Richie surprisingly of Belch Huggins. He hadn’t thought of Belch in a while. _That_ was a kid who needed a fucking bath.

He shared a look with Eddie. “Look, kid,” he said, turning back to him, “My buddy here just needs his inhaler so-”

“ _My buddy needs his inhaler_ ,” the kid mimicked. His friends squawked beside him like parrots.

Richie glowered at him. Was this the best attempt at humour in Derry? Wow, standards had slipped. No wonder he’d been such a riot. “What are you, eight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, old man?” the kid sneered.

Richie’s hands curled into fists. He was not going to hit a literal child. The headlines would be murder. But god, did he want to. So, so badly.

Before he could really register what was going on, Eddie stepped up. “Hey.”

The kid grinned. “Oooooh, your boyfriend gonna try?” he crowed.

Richie fought to keep his reaction under control because _that_ was not something he was okay with hearing, but by that point Eddie had leaned into the kid’s face and hissed, “You get off that fucking step and let us pass or I’ll rip out your spine and shove it down your throat ‘til you choke. Got that?”

The kid’s smile dropped. “Y-you can’t-”

“Can’t what, shitheel?” Eddie snarled. “Do you want to push me, see what I _will_ do?” The kid was turning pale, fast. “Better run home to your mommy, kid, you got nothing on the bullies I knew. I dealt with those fuckers and I’ll deal with you.”

The kid scrambled to his feet as his friends made their bid for freedom down a back alley. “Y-you’re a psycho!” he shouted, and then took off after them.

Eddie, meanwhile, straightened up and brushed down his jacket. “There we are. Coming?” he asked pleasantly, heading to the pharmacy door and pushing it open.

Richie gaped at him. “I dunno, Eds, will you rip out my spine and deal with me like you did our childhood bullies if I say no?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Not if you behave yourself.”

“Noted.”

“Can’t stand kids like that.”

“I can tell. And yet you’re still friends with me,” Richie commented, stepping into the pharmacy with him.

“One of life’s great mysteries,” Eddie remarked over his shoulder.

My god, Eddie traumatising yuppy tweens shouldn’t have done it for him and yet… and _yet…_

The pharmacy was no longer called Keene’s, which made Richie think the old bastard was either finally dead or in prison for a creep charge – he’d seen the way he used to look at Beverly – but not much else had changed. There wasn’t much to change about a pharmacy, he reasoned, but wandering down the aisles was like walking in the footsteps of his younger self. Eddie felt it too; he saw the way he kept his arms tucked into his body in case he accidentally touched something and set off some kind of alarm.

_AWOOGA AWOOGA THESE TWO CHUCKLEFUCKS GOT OUT AND THEY’RE BACK, GET ‘EM._

He reached out to him – he almost got there, he was inches away – and then Eddie turned around. Richie’s hand retreated guiltily back to its pocket. “This place is like a freaking time capsule,” Eddie observed.

“Yeah. Pretty sure some of these things are as vintage as we are.” Richie eyed a few products on offer and smirked. “Hey, you think if we touch anything it’ll suddenly rush into the present day?”

“Or we’ll get stuck in 1989.”

“God, imagine.”

“I’d rather not.”

There was a small queue to the counter. Eddie had assured him his inhaler was always going to be in stock and he would be able to put it on his card. Once Richie joined in behind Eddie, the childish urge to Play Up rose in him. He got it a lot in home stores and Costcos; just that innate urge to wind up whoever he was with to the point of lunacy.

Leaning in close to Eddie’s ear he whispered, “First stop on tour: Keene’s Pharmaceuticals, captained by a man once so old and boring that God himself forgot to kill him.” He used a voice he’d stolen from a tour guide he met in Cali, droll and monosyllabic. He saw the dark flash of Eddie’s eye as he glowered at him, daring him to carry on. Oh, he dared. “This is Derry’s hottest hang out for grandmas, a man with a weird boil that just won’t go away and men who’ve never achieved orgasm.”

“Oh my GOD,” Eddie said at a normal volume, startling the old dear in front of him.

Richie sniggered as he turned bright red and twisted around to bat him away. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed. “We’re in public.”

“What can I say, a man got his kinks.”

This earned a scorching glare. But Richie wasn’t done. He picked up a pack of bandages as though idly browsing and waited until Eddie’s defences lowered. They even moved forwards a few inches. Then he muttered in that same voice, “If you like fungal nail treatment, placebos and hives, then boy oh boy is this the place for you.” To his delight, Eddie’s shoulders tensed and began shaking. Suppressing any kind of emotion, laughter or rage, gave Richie a kind of sick pleasure. So he kept going.

“And don’t forget to pick up your ‘I Love Derry’ condoms for your travels. Yes, they are expired, because no one gets laid in this town. Remember kids,” and now he adopted the most stereotypical Russian accent possible, “you don’t fuck Derry – Derry fuck you.”

Eddie cracked. He let out a single, “HA” that hit the pharmacy like an atomic bomb. Everyone jumped, and Eddie attacked Richie with loose handed smacks. “You-are-the-worst,” he said between every smack and Richie’s gleeful laughter. “Wasn’t-even-funny-go-wait-outside-right now!”

Richie bounced on his feet, dodging a few hits sent his way as the assembled population of the pharmacy just stared at them, two men running around the store like giddy teenagers. “Aw, sugar, don’t go causing a scene now,” he cackled.

“Get out or I end you!”

He backed away with a proud grin and left Eddie to resume his place in line, seething. He could hear him mortifyingly apologise to his queue-fellows (“he’s very ill”) and suppressed a giggle as he headed out the door. He’d caught the softening of Eddie’s glare, though, and the smile that started to grow from the tight line of his mouth. Oh yeah. He did good.

He checked his phone as he waited, tapping a foot in rhythm to some car radio across the street. There were a lot of messages, all of them from the Losers asking where he’d absconded with Eddie. Beverly’s included the most graphic threats, so he chose to call her. “Beaverly, my sweet,” he trilled as she answered.

“Where are you?” was the first demand out of her mouth.

“What, no foreplay? No, ‘I’m missing your beautiful face’? Disappointing.”

“Cute, Tozier. Spill or I burn your shirts.”

“What NO.”

“Stan thinks I should do it anyway.”

“Stan should stop being a little bitch.” Richie moved to make way for an old man who merely grunted recognition at him, jamming the phone to his ear. “Also why are you listening to a man who considers sweater vests the height of fashion? I thought you were a designer.”

“Mike, pass the lighter fluid, he’s stalling.”

“NO.”

“Spill!”

Richie huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, fine, God. We’re in Derry.” Silence greeted his words, though he couldn’t tell what kind exactly. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring you back a postcard.”

“What are you doing, Trashmouth?” Beverly asked, a little less playfully.

Richie rolled his eyes. “Had to get Edmundo an inhaler.”

“Uh huh. Not the best date spot to pick there, Rich.”

A rising fear grabbed him by the throat and metaphorically shoved him up against the wall. “It is not a – we’re not – Jesus, Bev, fucking-”

“You went out on your own, you’ve gone to your hometown…”

“You know, shutting up is free.” His breath hitched. “It’s a thing you can do.”

“Richie, calm down.” She sounded serious now, and Richie didn’t like that one bit. He slumped against the side of the pharmacy and stared straight ahead of him at the decaying carcass of the Aladdin theatre. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Fuck, he needed a cigarette all of a sudden. “Bev, my sweet angel, I’ve gotten through life so far.”

“That in itself is a shock.”

He cracked a smile. “Oh, ha ha.”

He watched a group of kids on bikes passing by, all noise and laughter, and felt like he was watching something timeless. There would always be kids on bikes, outcasts, wannabes. It was like… nature’s way, or some shit. He hadn’t really used his bike once he moved; it was as though that, like his friends, was best left in Derry. It rotted away in his parents’ garage, scrapped eventually. He wasn’t sure why that made him so sad.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and said, “It’s just a drive, Bev. That’s all. He had cabin fever, I had to take him out before he started ripping up the cushions and peeing everywhere.”

“He’s your unrequited gay crisis crush, not a terrier.”

“Oh, please, let’s not get dramatic, Miss Scarlet.” He paused. “Also he’s definitely a chihuahua.”

“My god, how has he not killed you yet?”

“Animal magnetism.”

“Hmph.”

“Bev, it’s fine. He just beat me up in Keene’s old store and I’m 90% sure he’s going to throttle me when he gets out if there aren’t witnesses. We’re getting on swimmingly.”

“Alright, alright, just.” She sighed. “Just be careful. I don’t want either of you hurt.”

“Don’t worry, I got my rabies jabs and Eds has insurance.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Richie knew. Lowering his head, he mumbled, “It’ll pass, Bev. It has to.” It was a weak promise, but maybe saying it would make it true. He could hurry it along a little. First thing he would do back in LA was go to a bar and pick up the first dark haired asshole with an attitude problem he came across – there was a surprisingly large number of them in the City of Angels, so it wouldn’t be hard. It had been a while, but he was done with the married guy schtick. He didn’t want to hear the words ‘wedding’ and ‘marriage’ ever again after this.

“Hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but since you’ve been head over heels since you were thirteen I don’t think it will just pass.”

Richie’s heart physically clenched. Ugh. Why did Beverly have to be right all the time?

And then Eddie was coming out of the pharmacy and Richie was straightening up and putting on a face because that’s what he had to do, but also what he felt like doing. Eddie just made him like that, he guessed. The man in question had a paper bag in his hand, grumbling about something Richie couldn’t hear, and when he saw he was on the phone he stopped up short. He mouthed, “Who is it?” and _god_ if that wasn’t super fucking endearing. He was ruined. He was lost.

“It’s Bev, Eds,” Richie said aloud, so Beverly knew to be on her best fucking behaviour. “She’s calling off the search party, she knows I’m alive and well and the ransom demands are coming shortly.”

“Please, keep him!” she called from her end of the phone.

“Gimme the phone,” Eddie instructed. Richie obliged, and Eddie began with, “First off, _he_ kidnapped _me_ ,” which set Richie off.

Whilst Eddie regaled Beverly with the pharmacy story Richie just watched him, slightly entranced. He liked seeing Eddie talk, especially when he went off on tangents. He used his hands a lot, as though he were crafting his sentences out of clay, and every word he deemed particularly important was karate chopped into existence. He loved to watch him build arguments like Ben built skyscrapers, brick by brick – even if it did mean nearly getting hit in the face multiple times. There were a lot of things he objectively loved about Eddie, but he would never let them out of the dark. He had some semblance of pride.

Realising that he’d been staring too long, he glanced down the road and a familiar sign made him beam. Eddie noticed. “Hang on Bev – Richie where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Getting you a reward for being so good at the doctor’s,” he replied in a simpering voice, already halfway down the street. Eddie threw his balled-up receipt at him but missed. Tittering to himself, Richie sauntered into the only place that held solely _good_ memories – and came out with a mint choc chip cone in one hand and a chocolate monstrosity in the other.

“Holy shit,” Eddie broadcast as he made his way back. “Bev I need to go, there’s ice cream.” He had his eyes locked, as Richie predicted, on the mint choc chip. Little weirdo. “No, really. My weekly sugar intake is headed straight for me and I am going to destroy it.”

_Oh, yeah_ , Richie thought as he handed over the goods, _this man has ruined me and I’m fine with that._

It wasn’t a date. It really wasn’t. But once Beverly got it in his head, Richie couldn’t shake it. He didn’t _date_ – he hooked up – but as he and Eddie walked the streets of Derry side by side, devouring their ice creams and pointing out landmarks, he guessed this was probably what one felt like. You know. If he was ten.

Richie had always relished the rare opportunities when he was alone with Eddie. The Losers was a tight band and once they found each other they stuck together, but there were times where Richie liked one on one attention. There were times he wanted _Eddie’s_ attention. He would call for him on his own, when he knew Bill was busy with his parents and Stan had to practice his Torah reading, or sometimes he’d bump into him running errands for his mom. And then they would hang out.

Eddie was different around Richie the way he was with Bev or Mike or Ben; he was Eddie Upgraded. He was more likely to pick a fight with Richie, or spend his pocket money on candy, or throw rocks through the windows of the abandoned Neibolt place. Everyone assumed Richie put him up to it, but it was nearly always Eddie’s idea, the evil little mastermind, and Richie was just happy to take the credit. He never minded getting the rap for whatever they got up to, because it was Eddie. Eddie would get into a hell of a lot more trouble than Richie would.

Eddie was the one who dragged them into the Gift Shop and filled Richie’s arms with the most tacky and awful souvenirs he could find for everyone else (snow globes, ‘I Heart Derry’ shirts and little Paul Bunyan statues were among the finds) and laughed under his breath like it was going to be the best joke ever to buy his friends gifts. It was Eddie who, after five minutes of browsing shouted out, “LILIPUTS,” and gave Richie and the guy behind the counter consecutive heart attacks. It was also Eddie who, after explaining that it was the Liliputs that were the small people Gulliver met from a conversation they’d had hours ago, tried to get Richie in a headlock to both get him to shut up laughing and also to squash his ice cream into his face. They had bumped into one of the shelves, sending balls and snow globes bouncing around the store until they were asked to leave. People could say what they liked but Eddie could be just as insane as Richie sometimes. You just had to dig a little deeper.

When they got outside, Eddie took Richie’s hand and guided it to him. Richie could only grin like an idiot as Eddie bit – not licked, _bit_ , like a goddamn animal – off a chunk of Richie’s ice cream, because what else could he do? This was fun, too fun probably, but Richie indulged. He was only human.

“Hey,” Eddie said, scattering his thoughts as they headed to the waiting Mustang. “We made it.”

“Eh?”

Eddie gestured at himself. “Didn’t burst into flames.”

Richie snorted. It was weird how relieved he actually felt at that information. “Yeah. Guess we’re in the clear, Spaghetti.” He pointed at him with the remnants of his cone. “You don’t have shit to worry about anyway, Eds. You’re a proper suit man. I’m the prime target.” Strangely, Adrian’s words floated back into his psyche: _open season._ Sweat prickled at the back of his neck and the urge to look behind him came over all at once. He did take a glance, just to be sure.

Eddie frowned. “You’re not that bad, dude. You got money, you’re successful. You don’t look like an oversized teenager _all_ the time.”

“Yeah, uh huh, Mr and Mrs Bigot on Homophobia Terrace will be thrilled to hear of my Emmy nomination.”

Eddie blinked. “Oh. Right.” He shuffled his feet. “I, uh, forgot that.”

Wow. “You forgot I was gay?” Shock made the word come out. It was good to know it didn’t immediately stab him through the mouth.

Eddie’s eyes went wide. “No, no, not like that-”

“I don’t look the part, do I?” He smiled, but it was a mask. Eddie knew it was.

“Rich, don’t be a dick, I didn’t mean-”

“Because they don’t hand you a clubcard or something when you come out.”

“No!” Eddie looked frantic, now. “No, no, shut up man, no. I mean that I forgot there are people who, uh-,” he gestured vaguely. 

“Hate the fact I exist? Yeah, Eds, it’s a thing.”

“Well, fuck them, alright?”

The ferocity of his words made Richie stumble over his own simmering anger. “I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of what I should do…?”

“Don’t.” Eddie grabbed his hand, the one without the cone, and Richie’s brain short-circuited. “You don’t have to joke about shit like that, for fuck’s sake. If I made you feel like you do, then…”

Oh, Eddie Kaspbrak was _not_ about to apologise to him. No way. Richie fought to say something, but all he managed was, “I, uh…” which was decidedly not helpful. He was too focused on the way Eddie was holding his hand, tender and careful.

“I’d fucking fight them,” Eddie said, with a conviction that made Richie crack.

“All of them?” he asked, through nervous snickers.

“Yeah.”

He sobered. “For me?”

“Yeah, asshole. For you.”

“Oh.” Richie let out a strangled, “okie dokie” as Eddie squeezed his hand (and immediately wanted to jump off a cliff because ‘okie dokie’? Really?) and inhaled the rest of his cone before he managed to say anything stupid. Eddie hesitated, then took his other hand (what the fuck?? What the FUCK??) and ran his thumb across the backs of them, frowning.

“Rich, are you okay? You’re shaking.”

No shit, he was fucking shaking, what the fuck. Richie tried to look Eddie in the eye, hoping it would remind him to calm down and back the fuck up. It did the opposite. A voice from his core told him he needed him, not wanted, _needed,_ and that was starting to send him into a tailspin. “Eds,” he croaked, “I…”

“There they are!”

Richie wrenched his hands away and spotted the same greasy kid from earlier. This time, he had a very large woman with him who looked like she could bench press a truck and was also probably his mother. The kid pointed at them. “They said they would rip out my spine!”

“Fucking tattle-tale,” Richie breathed.

“Time to go?” Eddie asked, as the woman began to advance with rolled up sleeves.

“Oh yeah,” Richie agreed, bolting to the other door and flinging the keys over the roof. Eddie caught them, got in and had the engine started by the time the woman broke into a run.

“PUNCH IT PUNCH IT,” Richie yelled.

“I AM.”

“You two should be ashamed of yourselves!” The woman was caterwauling. “Picking on my boy, two grown men! When I get my hands on you-”

Eddie punched it. As they sped away he leant out of the window and roared back, “Your kid’s a fucking demon!” which sent Richie into hysterics. As they reached Derry’s city limit, Eddie started laughing too. It felt good. It felt earned.

* * *

They were almost back at the lakehouse before Eddie asked, in a small and un-Eddie-like voice, “Can we hang out some more?” like he was expecting Richie to say no.

Honestly, Richie had been thinking the same thing; the time in Derry had gone too fast, and the idea of going back to the lakehouse and facing the looks and Eddie’s room with the pills and his lonely couch bed wasn’t exactly making him eager. Beverly was going to talk to him again, he knew it, and he hated putting all the shit on her. She didn’t deserve to be his personal therapist, even if she did point out that morning that he had been the one who spent three hours holding her in her bathroom as she cried about Tom. That was different. She was leaving something. Richie was on the outside looking in on what he _wanted_. So yes, any distraction, any time with Eddie, he was going to take and hoard away like a greedy fucking dragon.

“Sure man,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world, “whatever you wanna do.”

Eddie considered it for a moment. Richie contented himself with the thick line of Eddie’s brows, furrowed in thought. Eddie’s eyes kept flicking up to the Ring of Power he’d tied to the Mustang’s mirror, because Richie hadn’t thought for one minute Eddie would be in a car with him and he was just that sappy about it. It made something snarl in the pit of his belly, that same dragon. He waited, on fire.

In the end, Eddie made the decision by taking a right just before the turn off for the lakehouse road, following the path down into a makeshift parking lot. Richie was about to ask what they were doing, but then he spotted a sign pointing to a lake path. “I see.” He grinned. “Fancy another boat trip, eh Captain Eds?”

“Absolutely not, I am not going anywhere near a boat with you for the rest of my life. I was thinking of something different.” He rummaged around in the bag holding the assortment of Derry souvenirs and brought out a jar-sized bottle of what looked like beer. It said on the label ‘mixed with whiskey’, which was definitely nature’s great mistake.

Richie gaped at him. “Edward Kaspbrak, are you asking me to sit by the lake and drink a Boilermaker hobo style with you? Have you had my Dad’s blessing?”

Eddie made a face. “Went got you drunk first, I’m sure he’d be fine with it. Besides, _you_ can drink like a hobo. I got myself some weird elderberry wine. And,” he produced a plastic wine glass with the phrase ‘Birthday Bitch’ emblazoned in pink across its face. “Do not say a fucking word, it’s literally the only one that’s the right size and shape for whatever dirt fruit bouquet this shit is gonna give me.”

Richie was pretty sure he wanted to propose marriage.

They set off along a path that got them to the lake in minutes, a far cry from Stan’s trek the day before. Richie stayed behind, happy to rely on Eddie’s excellent sense of direction and ignoring how it was likely to falter by the time they were done. He’d asked about the car but Eddie said it wasn’t far to the lakehouse and they wouldn’t be that drunk. Somehow Richie doubted both those things, but couldn’t find it in his heart to stop him.

It was late afternoon now, and the sunlight was becoming the colour of maize as they emerged onto the shore. There was a handful of people, couples and families, but they looked ready to leave. Many of them did. The lake was ahead of them, shades of gold and orange dropped like ink blots onto its surface as it mimicked the sky.

Eddie found a large rock to hop onto as Richie fired off a text to Ben explaining where they were. Ben, after all, was a safe bet. Ben wouldn’t give him shit. Ben would-

[From: Bennyboi, 6:05pm]  
\- _Hope u had fun on ur not-date =)_

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Richie said aloud, tapping back that Ben wasn’t getting a present and Stan could have two (which resulted in Stan immediately texting to inform him he was now his favourite and Ben replying with a simple: ‘D=’)

“What is it?” Eddie asked.

“Nothing.” He pocketed his phone and joined Eddie on the rock he’d deemed most appropriate for sitting on. “Just our friends being douches.”

“Don’t like it when you’re the punchline, huh?”

“Eddie my love, my _life_ is a punchline.” Eddie shot him a look, but before he could be accosted with aggressive compliments he couldn’t handle he thrust a hand in his direction. “Boilermaker. Gimme.”

“Say ‘please’,” Eddie grinned.

“Asshat.”

“Close enough, 5 for effort.”

He handed it over. Richie made a conscious effort not to touch him as the bottle came to him, and took a hit as soon as he could. He winced. Shit, the whiskey in that shit burned. Mix it with the fire already brewing in his belly and it left Richie almost ablaze. “Wow,” he hissed, but Eddie was far too busy pouring his wine into the Birthday Bitch glass to pay attention. Richie couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to where Eddie had the glass clenched steadily between his thighs as he cracked the wine open, and took another hit. Fire be damned, he needed this shit.

“So, how did you enjoy our whistle stop tour of the ol’ stomping ground?” he asked.

Eddie took an experimental sip of the wine and seemed to like it enough to take another. “It was… more fun than I expected.”

“Oh? Gonna get some hot real estate there, Eds?”

“I would rather die,” he said bluntly, enough to make Richie snort out a laugh, “But it was way more bearable having you there.” He turned his glass over in his hands as he added, “it made me feel more… like I belonged there, instead of being like an outsider. That place, it has… something about it. It sucks you in, right?”

“Like a black fucking hole,” Richie agreed. He paused. “Eds, were you thinking about all the… all the memories we had in that place? All the beatings and chases and hiding from Bowers?”

Eddie nodded, mouth twisted in thought. “Sure. But there were good things too.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Like going to the movies, playing Street Fighter, getting ice cream from that parlour every weekend we had money…”

“Heyy.” Richie nudged him playfully. “Those are all me memories.”

Eddie smiled to himself, then looked at Richie, eyes all dark and blown out. “Yeah. They are.”

Richie tore his gaze away, forcing down the urge to either cry or fling himself at Eddie or both. _God, did he know? How could he not know, with the way he was looking at him_? “I guess… I guess a lot of my good ones are of you, too. And the other Losers.” He glanced back at him. “Mostly you.”

Eddie actually turned a little red at the attention, and hooooo boy Richie could not handle _that_. He kept his eyes front, keeping an eye on the horizon as he took a long swig from the bottle. “A-anyway, do you think you’d get rid of it all? If you could? Go back and burn Derry to the ground tomorrow?”

That’s how he’d felt about it for a long while; looking back on his time in that backwater town, College Richie wanted to destroy everything, bulldoze it until there was nothing left and salt the earth just to make sure. He was convinced back then that if he got rid of the place that made him into the anxious, closeted, defensive amorphous blob he’d become, then it would make shit better. Some part of him still felt that.

Eddie surprised him by shaking his head. “Tempting though it is, if I got rid of all the bad memories, I’d have to get rid of the good ones too. The bad ones… they’re worth it, for the good.”

“Even when Bowers tried to get you to eat slugs?”

Eddie’s face went blank. “Literally why did you remind me of that I think I blacked it out.”

“Shit, sorry.”

“That’s another one for therapy.” Eddie looked to him again. “What about you?”

He almost let College Richie take over. But he thought back to all the times he’d seen Eddie smile, seen him laugh or use a swear for the first time, and knew he couldn’t bear to lose those. So he shrugged and muttered, “me neither,” like it was nothing at all and toasted it with a tap of his Boilermaker to Eddie’s plastic glass.

They both drank and sat in quiet for a little while. Eddie’s gaze wandered down to Richie’s pocket. “Could you put music on?”

Richie blinked. “Uh, sure. What do you want?”

_Please don’t ask for Fleetwood Mac I don’t know if I’d be able to take it if you did._

“Anything,” Eddie said. “Something from when we were kids.”

“Gotcha.” He had a whole nostalgia playlist, and most of them weren’t pining ballads so he figured it was a safe bet. Sure enough, _Dancing in the Dark_ came on and Richie’s nerves were soothed. That was until a text alert made them both jump out of their skins. It wasn’t his tone.

“Guess I have signal,” Eddie joked weakly as he checked it. Just like that, his posture changed. The easy sprawl became rigid and straight as his eyes darted across the screen. His smile slipped off and seemed to land on the ground in front of them, shattering into pieces. He morphed before Richie’s eyes into someone else, someone who didn’t threaten kids or start fights in a souvenir shop. He became the other Eddie, the sadder one. He tapped out a reply quickly and put it back in his pocket, but the damage was done.

Richie didn’t need to ask. He did anyway. “Myra?”

Eddie nodded.

“How many messages came through?”

Eddie smiled, but bitterly. “Twenty eight.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie shrugged it off like he was used to it. That might have been true, but the lack of contact for six months made it impossible for Richie to know for sure. Eddie didn’t want to talk about it, he could tell by the way he was curling himself up around his stupid plastic wine glass. He ran his mouth anyway. “You two argue this morning?”

As predicted, Eddie stiffened at the question. “What makes you think we argued?”

“I dunno, Eds. I guess when you throw pills around a room and make it look like a drug den exploded, it’s probably not been done through joy.”

Eddie sighed. It was heavy, laboured with something he was obviously reluctant to share. “Okay, yeah. We argued.” He looked down into the depths of his glass like he was hoping to find some answers there. “We argued because she…” He hesitated. “She cares about me too much.”

Richie wasn’t sure that was what Eddie meant to say, but he didn’t press it. “And you… don’t want that?” he asked, confused.

“Yes.” Eddie paused. “No.” He frowned. “I don’t know.” He huffed, draining his glass and immediately pouring another. “My Mom sorta messed with my head about that shit. But Myra, she… it’s not her fault. Really. It’s – it’s more _my_ fault. I think… I _know_ I make her like this.”

“Like what?”

Eddie gestured at the phone-shaped bulge in his pocket. Richie really had to hold back from asking, ‘clingy and annoying?’ like he usually would. He had a feeling Eddie wouldn’t take that well.

Instead he said, in a voice that wasn’t meant to sound as soft as it did, “Spaghetti, you don’t make anyone like anything. You might be a neurotic, rabid little man but you’re not some kind of monster, dude.” Eddie didn’t laugh the way he would have before seeing the texts – in fact, he even looked a little sceptical. And oh man did that make irritation prickle in Richie like a bad rash. “Eddie, my starshine, my ragtime guy, you know you deserve to be cared about, right?”

Eddie bit his lip. “I dunno. Sometimes I wonder.”

Richie retreated to the Boilermaker, taking a gulp before setting it down between them. They passed almost a whole minute in silence, Eddie avoiding his eye like he wasn’t allowed to look at him and Richie’s temper rising because he didn’t know what the fuck was going on but he didn’t like the way Eddie seemed so vulnerable all of a sudden.

“Do you love her?” he dared to ask. He regretted it the minute it was out his mouth.

Sure enough, Eddie didn’t take _that_ well. “What the hell,” he said tightly. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you?” he pressed, because apparently he was some sort of masochist.

Eddie sucked in a breath. “Richie.” He sighed. “Obviously I do.”

“Okay.”

Eddie bristled. “What do you mean, ‘okay’?”

“Just that. Okay.”

“You don’t fucking believe me, do you?”

Richie didn’t answer. The alcohol was making him bratty, but he also had something resembling a self-preservation instinct. If he said something, anything, Eddie might know. He might see.

His face was thunderous. “What the fuck, is this why you’ve been weird about it? Because you think it’s a sham?”

“I dunno.” Bruce Springsteen’s voice rumbled on, changed to John Parr’s _Man in Motion_ , but Richie blocked it out. “I don’t think it’s a sham, I think you haven’t thought it through and Myra cares for you wrong.”

“Since when were you my fucking Dad?”

“At least I’m not your mom. Or maybe that’s Myra.”

Oof, that was too far. Eddie’s face dropped. He looked like he wanted to hit him, really hit him so it bruised, and Richie was honestly okay with that because he fucking deserved it. Instead he shook his head, a snarl curling his lip, and slid off the rock. “I don’t need to listen to this.” He started off towards the water, leaving his wine bottle and plastic glass where it was.

Usually, Richie would let him go. Let him cool off before he started trying to crack jokes and turn it into something different. But oh no, Eddie was not walking away from him again, not again, not after last time. Another six months of missed calls and answerphone confessions threatened to appear between them and that just fuelled Richie’s anger that was beginning to crackle and spit inside him. It was in his blood now, all the fury that burned in him every time he saw Eddie shrink back, look helpless or defeated or second-guess himself, because _fuck you how dare you feel like that you don’t need to feel like that because you’re LOVED_. So Richie followed him, and let it out as he went.

“I’m sorry I happen to give a shit about your mental health,” he said, raising his voice so Eddie could definitely hear, “but the others don’t have the balls to ask so guess it’s up to me because I hate seeing you like this.”

“Oh, you’re _such_ a fucking martyr. Must be hard to talk about something other than yourself for once.” Ouch. Okay, another deserved hit. “Fuck you, you don’t know shit about my feelings. Just because _my_ idea of a wedding isn’t the same as… as yours, or Bev’s or Stan’s does not mean-”

“I couldn’t give a shit about weddings, Eds, I give a shit about you.”

“Yeah? You do? Well, you have a funny fucking way of showing it,” Eddie spat as he kept walking. He didn’t even look back.

Richie stopped. That hit deeper than he’d expected. He’d been trying, trying so hard to make it seem like he was okay. He toed the line between caring enough and caring too much for so long that the weight of it was unbearable; he let himself hurt and ache and bleed in front of all of their friends because he thought it was for the best, hiding just how much he fucking cared like he’d gotten so used to doing with everything else, and it wasn’t enough. Well, if he couldn’t make it better, why not make it worse? He always had been good at ruining things – time to put it to the test.

He went after Eddie at a jog, music still blaring from his pocket. “Hey. HEY.”

“Go away, Richie.”

“No, I’m not fucking going away, you asshole.” He grabbed hold of his shoulder but Eddie knocked it loose. “You don’t think I care? Really? That’s not fair, Eds. That’s not fucking fair at all.” 

“You know what’s not fair?” Eddie demanded, rounding on him so suddenly they almost crashed into one another. “‘Not fair’ is letting your fiancée cry over your own mid-life crisis and not wanting to stop her. ‘Not fair’ is making her think you were going to propose because you’re too chicken-shit to correct her.”

He was in Richie’s face now, spitting venom like a cobra, and Richie just stood there. Paralysed. Because what the fuck was Eddie saying?

“And you know what’s _really_ not fucking fair?” He stabbed a finger into Richie’s chest, his eyes wild and trapped and close to tears. “When you realise you’ve never loved someone the way you should your entire fucking life because you’re scared and you don’t know how!”

He bellowed the last part like a wounded animal, and Richie took a step back under the force of it. A coldness sliced through him, breaking through the fire and the heat. His breaths came short and his stomach lurched enough that the remains of the ice cream and Boilermaker seemed to want to make a reappearance. This… this couldn’t be happening. “W-what are you saying?” he asked faintly.

Eddie let out a sad, bitter little laugh and stepped away from him, washing a shaking hand over his face. “I’m scared, Rich, I’m so fucking scared and I always will be because that’s how I’m wired. You ever been so scared it blocks out something for you? Imagine seeing people in love in movies and on TV and thinking it’s something made up until you notice everyone around you can feel that way and you don’t, because you don’t know what it is? The only time you’ve ever said ‘I love you’ is to get your Mom off your back, and you know this isn’t the same.”

Richie kept quiet. Eddie had to do this. He was terrified.

“But no one tells you, no one ever fucking teaches you, so you meet someone and you tell yourself you’ll learn, you’ll figure it out, it can’t be so tough, and you do and you try but it’s not the same as what you have with your-” He broke off, looking horrified. Tears were streaming down his face, but Eddie didn’t appear to have noticed. He crumpled like a bag in the wind and turned away, growling with frustration. “Whatever. It’s too late.”

Richie didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. He stepped closer, aching for him. “Eds, I-”

“I wasn’t going to propose to Myra,” he said. “I was going to tell her I thought I was… that I might be… ugh. I can’t say it, still can’t fucking say it.” Eddie still wasn’t facing him. “But when I sat down and said I had something to ask her, she thought I was asking her to marry her. And she looked so _happy_ Rich, happier than I’d ever seen her and I got this jolt and I thought _this is it, this is what I was looking for_ so I… I asked her. And she cried and said yes and I thought I’d done it, I’d cracked the fucking code and I felt the thing everyone else did, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

Richie moved. He forced himself forward, heart in his mouth, and put a tentative hand on Eddie’s shoulder. This wasn’t the kind of heavy pat he would trot out to keep his feelings at bay. This was tender, more tender than he wanted. He rubbed Eddie’s shoulder soothingly, his thumb straying up to the back of his neck before smoothing back down. Eddie seemed to shudder and leant into the movement, the same as he had back in Derry. But this time there was something physical to move into, instead of just empty space. Richie gulped. He didn’t know what to say – what could you say, after a thing like that? – and then he paid attention to his phone. A new song had started.

_‘Do you hear me calling out your name? You know that I’ve fallen and I don’t know what to say…’_

He closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. _Motherfucker, the fates were really in for him today._ He’d been trying to keep the events of the previous night out of his mind, but with the glittery opening bars it all came back. Eddie, drunk and pressed up close to him, swaying to a song he couldn’t remember because it was _Eddie,_ all around him _Eddie_ , and he let himself sink into that moment like a hot bath on a long day. He lowered his head down and rested it between Eddie’s shoulder blades, another sigh tearing through him. This was too hard. This was too fucking hard. Eddie didn’t move. Richie supposed he was grateful.

Eddie spoke first. “What happened on the porch, Richie?” His voice wavered on the air. “Last night. Before I passed out.”

“Eddie, you were drunk,” Richie mumbled into his jacket. “You were so out of it, man, I-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Richie moved his head, moved away. He stopped about a foot away from Eddie and looked up at the sky, hoping something would strike him so he didn’t have to answer the question. “C’mon, I don’t think it’s gonna help if I-”

“Did I kiss you?” Eddie’s hands were moulded into fists, and they were shaking.

A rush of heat threatened to overwhelm him then, the hazy memory of last night coming back to him in a blur. Eddie, looking up through lidded eyes, reaching even as his body was going slack and those eyes of his were glazing over. Richie knew something was wrong, something had to be because why was Eddie reaching like that, reaching the way he never had? But he hadn’t wanted to move, even when the music stopped; he tried to tell Eddie the night was finished, the music was gone, to get him to snap out of something that was bound to be a mistake, but he never got there. The gentle brush of Eddie’s top lip against Richie’s chin, promising more, wanting more before he went boneless and heavy on him hurt, stung, ached to remember.

But Eddie had asked. Richie had to answer.

He sucked in a breath. “You didn’t,” he said, because it was the right thing to do.

Eddie turned around. He wasn’t angry anymore. But there were tears, oh shit, tears he kept scrubbing away and sneering at because he didn’t want them there. “Right. Right,” he muttered, but it didn’t sound like relief.

Their eyes met across the space between them, and Eddie’s seemed almost black.

“Rich, you know what I was too much of a coward to tell her.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t make me say it, Richie. Please.”

Richie wet his lips. “It’s okay. I got a pretty good idea.” He did. He did, and it was fucking insane.

Eddie let out a weak laugh, running a hand through his hair so it stuck up on end. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

Then he came to him, bridging the gap in a couple of strides. Richie couldn’t do this. Eddie was a little drunk, he was emotional, he wasn’t thinking straight. He shouldn’t – but then Eddie was there, he was yanking him closer by his shirt, and he was kissing him, hard and fast.

And Richie fell apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...no comment... 
> 
> Except for: Birthday Bitch is a plastic wine glass I have seen and it was so ridiculous and tacky I wanted it immediately. I didn't, so instead it belongs to Eddie now.   
> Also Boilermakers sound absolutely gross but I'm biased because I hate beer in all its forms. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and you're looking forward to the next chapter!


	12. Eddie Kaspbrak tries to be brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's pov: he deals with the fallout from the last chapter, he tries to be brave, he makes the most of his bravery, and makes a pretty big decision...
> 
> Just a quickie warning that this chapter IS nsfw so uh enjoy~
> 
> As always, you can find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf and kudos & comment if you enjoy this and share it around! :) we're at the home stretch now guys, it's coming to an end soon and that's wild.

Eddie kissed Richie like a car crash. The moment he smashed their mouths together, something inside him broke. Talking didn’t matter. Neither did thinking. He didn’t need to think about how he’d just shouted something at Richie that he’d been battling with for way longer than he realised, and neither did he need to think about how Richie had just stared at him in a way that fucking broke his heart. No. He just needed _this,_ the way he needed to eat and drink and breathe. He needed Richie.

He was shaking, still shaking, his anxiety and anger melting down into something toxic screaming through his veins. He was trying. He was trying so hard. This was meant to make it better, meant to feel fucking amazing, so why wasn’t it working? He tightened his grip on Richie’s shirt and hoped he could ride it out, that the glacial panic tearing through him would let him off soon. He hung on, terrified of what would happen if he let go. _Stop being afraid, why are you still so fucking scared you fucking coward what the fuck-_

Richie… wasn’t moving. He seemed frozen in time, arms flung out to the side like he couldn’t touch him, like he wasn’t allowed. Eddie trembled even more. God, he was fucking it up. He was doing it wrong. He was still scared, and Richie didn’t want it – didn’t want _him._ Of course he didn’t, who the hell did Eddie think he was? He was a closeted Risk Analyst with a fiancée who loved him more than life itself and a penchant for medication he didn’t need. And here he was, the first time he tried chasing something he wanted, and he’d missed the fucking mark.

He broke the kiss with a shudder, keeping his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at Richie. There was no way. An apology was on the way up his throat, ready and waiting to be trotted out. But Eddie wasn’t sorry, and he had to lie, and that was going to hurt. “I…”

Richie’s hand suddenly moving to the side of his face shut him up. Eddie’s apology stuttered and died like a car engine. “No,” Richie rasped in the space between them, and then he came to life.

Richie kissed him back with less ferocity, more care, and Eddie felt those traitorous tears come to the surface once again. _This_ was how it was supposed to feel. He wanted this. Fuck, he hadn’t realised how long he’d wanted it. He’d learnt long ago that kisses were like business transactions; accruing enough meant whoever he was with was happy, and they liked having him around, and that was fine by him. This wasn’t like that at all – this was real, and electric, and good. Eddie hadn’t felt it like this before. He’d kissed plenty of people – four was plenty, wasn’t it? – and he’d never had the urge to stay this way, glued to the other person forever. Was that sad? Maybe it was. Eddie wasn’t sure.

 _Take control_ , he pleaded as Richie’s fingers began to delve into his hair, sending shivers through his whole body that countered the shakes. _Please do it you fucker, please, I don’t know how._

Richie seemed to hear him. He was slowing him down, calming him, keeping the pressure light and soft as he leaned into him with a sigh. Eddie let out an embarrassing sob deep in his chest. It was a lot. It was… it was so much. It was almost painful.

He clutched him closer and whispered, “Rich,” softly between kisses, breathlessly.

“Hey, ssh,” Richie murmured against his lips. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Just like that, Eddie was back on the lake, _in_ the lake, in Richie’s arms and panicking at the idea of an eel or jellyfish or whatever-the-fuck brushing up against him. He’d thought back then that Richie definitely had him, and had done for a while, but it never occurred to him just _how_ much. He sank into him, moved his arms so that they were wrapped around Richie’s neck and chased his lips, aching, hurting, but not in the same way.

Richie took his time, planting kisses against Eddie’s lips like he was scared they would shatter and break apart. When he traced his tongue along his bottom lip in a quiet question, Eddie opened his mouth willingly in answer. _Yes, please. Yes FUCKING please_. Richie’s tongue in his mouth set his stomach sparking, and when Richie took a breath to mumble, “you taste like mint,” with a pleased smile Eddie was pretty sure he knew what dying felt like. He hummed softly, hesitating before taking Richie’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting it, just a little. Richie’s knees physically buckled, and Eddie smiled. _Gotcha._

“Fuck, Eds,” Richie sighed, breaking away and resting his forehead against his. Even this quelled Eddie’s fear; he nudged his head against Richie’s insistently, just to make sure he was there and not just a very elaborate hallucination. He was. Okay. This was okay. He kissed him again, short and soft, just to be certain, and the world began to rearrange itself around him. He could sense panic creeping around the perimeter of the warmth blooming in his chest, but he held it at bay. He would hold it off as long as he could.

“Look at me,” Richie said, his voice little more than a hushed whisper and far different than any other voice Eddie had heard him use.

Right. Eddie hadn’t opened his eyes the whole time. But he couldn’t. He shook his head, pressing his lips to Richie’s stubbornly.

Richie broke it. “Eddie, baby, look at me.”

 _Baby._ The shock of it made his eyes snap open as he jerked his head back. “What the fuck did you just call m-”

His mouth snapped shut at the sight of Richie. He was flushed, his hair wild and flyaway from where Eddie had run his fingers through it, and his lips were pink and a little wet ( _gross,_ Eddie thought) from the way he’d been kissing him. The realisation that _he_ had caused the hot mess that was Richie Tozier before him made something snag in his belly.

Something in Richie’s gaze stopped him from bridging the gap again. He was looking over every inch of him, his brows furrowed. He looked – worried. That just made Eddie want to do it more. Because he had to know. He _had_ to.

“-me,” Eddie finished, a little dizzy.

Richie smiled, and that hesitation slipped back behind the veil, still there but well hidden. “There he is. There’s my Eds.” _My Eds._ “You okay?”

Eddie nodded. Richie raised a brow sceptically. Eddie shook his head. He felt wobbly all of a sudden, like the weight of what he’d just done was beginning to latch on. “I think I’m gonna pass out,” he said weakly.

Richie’s eyes snapped wide. “Okay, shit, let’s… let’s not do that. Think you can make it to the rock?”

Eddie judged the distance and nodded. With a remaining shred of bravery, he held out a hand. Richie took it without hesitation, even though Eddie’s palms were sweaty and his fingers didn’t work when he tried to thread them together. He clenched his jaw and looked back at Richie, uncertain; but he was smiling carefully, fondly, and he knew it was alright.

They set off back towards the rocks. It felt odd, to walk beside Richie now they had – well, now _that_ had happened. Eddie’s heart was still racing, beating out a frantic tune as he allowed himself to be led along. Was he really going to pass out? From what, panic? The drugs weren’t out of his system yet, that had to be it, but then again did they have any truth serum properties, were they-

“Breathe, Eddie,” Richie reminded him.

He sucked in air. “I am breathing,” he argued back. “Do I look dead to you?”

“Good to know kissing me hasn’t reset your ‘being a catty asshole’ mode.”

“I’ll dump you in the lake.”

“Like to see you try.”

“Fuck you.”

“Take me to dinner first.”

Eddie couldn’t respond to that. His first reaction was, “but everyone will see,” closely followed by, “okay”, but what came out was strangled and jumbled noise that made Richie splutter out a laugh.

When they got to the rocks, Eddie couldn’t stop himself from pushing Richie gently against one of them and stepping into his space, a space he hadn’t been able to breach before. “Hey,” he said, lamely. God, maybe passing out was better than this.

But Richie was grinning at him, kind of loose and relaxed. “Hey yourself. Still gonna faint?”

“Not sure.” Eddie heaved out a breath. “It’s just- uh, I want- ugh. Saying it sounds, it’s just… this is weird, dude.”

Oh my god, he called Richie ‘dude’ after making out with him. He wanted the lake to sweep him out into the fucking ocean.

Richie laughed, but it wasn’t cruel. He hesitated, thinking, before he tucked a hand behind Eddie’s ear, his thumb gently stroking the side of his face. “It gets easier,” he said, eyes still looking for signs of discomfort, of resistance. It sounded like a promise. Eddie almost believed him. “Just takes time.”

Eddie leaned in, savouring the gentle tickling heat Richie’s thumb painted across his skin. He didn’t have that time to spare, though. All too often it felt like time was running out, that he was missing a vital part that no one seemed to know about or have the manual for. He sighed. “I thought it would go,” he said. When Richie didn’t interrupt, he continued, “being scared. I thought once I – once I _told_ you, I wouldn’t be… but I am.”

Richie cracked a smile. “It’s been 15 minutes, Eds, jeez. I’ve been out to you guys for six months and I’m having breakdowns 24/7.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie huffed. “Where’s the fucking magic wand that you wave so everything is all okay?”

“Ah, see, you’re confusing our kind with _actual_ fairies,” Richie replied sagely. “Easy mistake, but very different entities.”

‘ _Our kind’._ Eddie bridled at the words – and immediately got annoyed at himself for doing so. “I don’t know what I am,” he said, his voice rising slightly with nerves, “but I know that I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, so that’s what I’m working with right now. Sue me.”

Richie blinked, a little taken aback. “That was… remarkably candid, Eds, thanks for that.” Eddie rolled his eyes. Okay, so he had to work on that. _Note to self: maybe don’t sound like you want to rip someone’s throat out when you’re trying to be honest._ “How… long is a long time?”

Eddie closed his eyes, turning his face towards Richie’s hand and kissing the pad of his thumb, almost without thinking. “A couple months,” he answered. He figured that was a safe lie; a part of him knew it could have been years, if he started counting. God, fucking years… “Can we… can we not do this now?” he asked.

When he opened his eyes again, Richie’s smile had vanished. He was staring at Eddie’s mouth with great interest, like he’d never seen one before. “A couple months,” he repeated, his eyes unfocused. When their eyes met again, Richie audibly gulped. “What would you, uh, like to talk about?”

 _Everything. I want to tell you everything, I swear, but it’s too much._ “Baby,” he said.

Richie frowned. “Dirty Dancing really on your mind is it Eds?”

“No, dickwad, the pet name.” Eddie dared to press in closer, toying with the boundaries his courage was willing to give as he moved a hand back to Richie’s hair. He really was like a scruffy fucking dog. Eddie liked that about him. “What kind of endearment is ‘baby’?”

Richie was relaxing, letting Eddie comb through his hair with a satisfied smile. How he slipped into this side of him so easily gave Eddie whiplash. “Hey, if it’s good enough for Jennifer Grey it’s good enough for me.” The smile widened lazily. “Don’t you like it?”

Eddie huffed. The problem was that he had liked it a lot, but it wasn’t… it couldn’t… “You can’t call me ‘baby’, I have a fucking mortgage,” he blurted out.

Richie burst out laughing, the obnoxious braying kind that usually set up a fight or flight response in Eddie. This time he just glowered at him, because it was a serious fucking discussion and he was having it right now. “Well, tough,” he said, once the laughter subsided. “When I called you baby it looked like your universes re-aligned, so I will never stop saying it.”

Eddie groaned as heat rushed to his face. “What monster have I created?”

“Baby,” Richie crooned, grinning as he brought his thumb around to swipe against his bottom lip. Eddie’s eyes very nearly rolled into the back of his head as Richie leant forward and pressed a kiss to a spot near his ear. He then began to plant them down his neck; one under his jaw (“baby”), one under his chin (“baby”), on his pulse (“mm, baby”). Eddie was pretty sure this was what losing his mind felt like. They started out chaste and playful, but after Eddie let out a soft gasp they became slow, open-mouthed and sloppy.

Eddie tightened his grip on Richie’s hair and let a moan spill free, tilting his head back as the next “baby” landed, slurring and slow, at his throat. His skin prickled where Richie’s mouth had been, but he wanted more. He didn’t care. His body reacted of its own accord, arching his hips into Richie’s to chase that pressure, that friction, that _anything_.

Richie’s reaction was to turn them, almost slamming Eddie into the rock. It knocked the wind out of him a little, but then Richie was bearing down on him, licking and sucking at his neck like they were horny teenagers at make-out point, and Eddie quickly forgot about everything else.

“You’re gonna – _uhnn –_ be the death of me,” he murmured, his knees losing feeling as he felt Richie’s teeth graze down his neck tantalisingly slowly.

“I sincerely hope not,” Richie replied, “else I’ll have no one to try out my material on.”

Eddie smirked. Always had an answer for everything, the smartass. “Hey,” he said, tugging on his curls, “get yourself up here.”

“Lucky it’s not too far to travel, huh?”

Eddie tugged his hair again, more forceful. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

“But you wanna kiss me.”

“Smugness can be a turn off, you know.”

Richie’s accompanying kiss, searing and long, seemed to prove that particular theory very wrong indeed.

Soon – too soon – the light began to fail. Eddie didn’t feel like moving, too lost in the warmth, the taste, the feel of Richie to do little else, but as the sun sank beneath the lake like a rock, Richie pulled away, still toying with Eddie’s lip as he did. “We should head back,” he sighed, as though he really didn’t want to. “The others.”

Eddie’s stomach gave a jolt. Oh god, the others. Myra. His fucking life, the one he’d managed to dismantle so easily in the course of a few hours. Dread flooded into him, so much so that he leant his head forward onto Richie’s broad shoulder, forcing air into his lungs and quashing the rising anxiety. It didn’t last long. He’d start thinking too much, his mind would start sprinting, and then he was in trouble. Big trouble.

“What am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “What am I fucking doing?”

Richie didn’t answer. He was clearly thinking the same thing. He carded a hand through his hair, saying nothing, and Eddie shivered. It felt good. It also sent a spike of nerves through him because somehow Richie was the reason and solution to the same problem.

“I don’t think I’m brave enough for this, Rich,” he mumbled into his shoulder. “I just – right now, right this second I can do anything, but… ugh. It’s stupid.”

“No it isn’t.” Richie’s fingers were drawing patterns into his scalp, tender and soothing. “It’s not stupid.”

“It _is_.” Eddie butted his shoulder in frustration. “Why can’t I just tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

_That you’re what I needed, that I wish I’d had the guts to tell you sooner, that I’ve had fucking dreams about you since we stopped talking because I missed seeing you in person. That maybe, just maybe, it’s always been you, you big fucking idiot, and I took too long._

The thoughts all came to him, jostling for a place in his head, but they were all just out of reach. He shook his head. He couldn’t. “Nothing. Nothing, Richie.” He sighed. “Guess I don’t have much of a brain left, thanks to you.”

When he moved back, Richie couldn’t quite hide his disappointment fast enough. He smiled instead, but it was a little sad, and whew did that make Eddie feel like shit. “They do say you have to be brainless to watch my stand up,” he joked weakly. “You’ve uncovered my scheme to make you the most loyal fan.”

Eddie wanted to apologise, wanted to try again, but he knew it was pointless. He played along, drawing himself into the joke the way Richie wanted. “You kiss all your fans like that?”

Richie’s face softened. “No,” he said, “just you.”

They did have to leave. Eddie knew that. So they did, walking back to the car without speaking and the air around them heavy and warm. Richie was insistent that he was okay to drive the two minutes to the lakehouse. Eddie was grateful for that; he wasn’t sure he could hold himself steady, let alone a steering wheel. “We don’t have to tell them,” Richie said as he drove. “I know you’re like… having a minor crisis right now, so. Y’know. Take all the time you need.”

Eddie bit his lip. “What happened to the Richie who does dumb Russian accents in pharmacies?” he asked faintly.

“Oh, he’s still here, he’s tied up in a corner. But this, it’s… it’s important, Eds. I get it.” Richie shrugged. “Coming from a still-little-bit-repressed gay man, it’s a fucking minefield out there, and I won’t joke about that shit.”

Eddie hid his face in his hands and groaned. “I don’t want to think about it, or talk about it. I just… just came out to you or something, and then I jumped your bones like I was some horny teenager, and I’m not, I’m… well, look at me!” He gestured viciously at himself.

Richie dutifully looked at him, eyes sliding over him in a way Eddie recognised from dozens of times before. A jolt ran through him, as he peered through his fingers at him, and he realised that Richie had been looking at him the way Eddie had hoped he would for a while. Years. God, Richie had wanted him that long? What the hell had they been doing all that time?

Richie cleared his throat and turned down the lakehouse road, eyes back on the route. “I just see you, Eds.”

Eddie gulped. “You’ve… always seen me.”

Richie’s fingers flexed on the wheel. They looked sweaty. “Guess I have,” he replied. His words sounded warm. Fond. Like coming home.

Eddie put his hands back over his face. “I’m going to get a headrush if you keep making me blush like a girl.”

“Heyy now, nothing wrong with girls. Or blushing. It’s cute.”

“I’m a grown man, I’m not cute.” _Lie. Richie was a grown man and he was the cutest fucking thing Eddie had ever seen._

“Yes you are baby, you’re adorable. Cute, cute, cute.” Richie sounded pleased. “Even when you give me that death stare you’re giving me right now.”

“I’m throwing myself out this car.”

“Nu-uh, child locks. For the baby.”

“I will throttle you.”

“Kinky.”

Once Richie parked up, Eddie strode around the bonnet of the car and plucked Richie out of it. He slammed him against the car and dragged his face down to meet him, ensnaring him in a kiss he’d craved like oxygen. Richie let out a low moan deep in his throat as Eddie slid his tongue against his, framing his face between his hands. Encouraged, Eddie pressed closer, flattening himself against Richie’s body so that every stuttered gasp reverberated through him.

“Mmm, what’s this for?” Richie asked, his hands skimming Eddie’s sides and coming to rest at his hips.

“Courage,” Eddie answered, tracing the line of Richie’s lips with his tongue. He felt Richie twitch against him, felt him hardening just a little, and pushed their hips together in a slow grind. He was almost a little proud. He was responsible for this, he was the one who’d riled Richie up enough, this was for _him_. He swallowed down Richie’s moan in case any of the others were outside and did it again, if only to feel that friction. “And making up for, _ahh,_ lost time.”

Richie’s smile was large and dopey and made Eddie forget momentarily about anything else. “Yeah?” he mumbled, stealing another kiss from him.

Eddie smiled too. “Yeah. And an apology.”

“What f-”

“For making you wait.” Eddie traced the lines of Richie’s face, lines that hadn’t always been there but were now as much a part of him as his hair, his glasses. Somewhere down the line they’d gone and gotten themselves old, but Eddie was beginning to realise he didn’t mind that so much. Missing out on so much, so many years, it hurt – but it was okay. They were here now, sort of.

Richie kissed him again, his hands squeezing his hips in a way that made him hollow his back with a whine, and drew away. “We telling them? I recall you changing the subject before.”

Eddie shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet.” Not before Myra. he owed her that, at least.

“Okay,” Richie said, like it made sense. “Bev’d murder me if she knew, anyway.”

“Why, because you’ve seduced a man away from his own wedding?” Eddie muttered, half-teasing.

Richie didn’t laugh. In fact, he _winced._ “Something like that.” Oh. He shook himself and looked Eddie over with a critical eye. “A-anyway, you need to neaten up, man, you look like someone’s been necking you for hours.”

“Almost like someone _has_ been necking me for hours. And you’re just as bad.” They both failed to mention the fact that they were definitely _both_ a little hard. That was just something they didn’t have to speak about. Eddie started the impossible task of neatening up Richie’s hair, though Richie did point out that having neater hair would probably be more suspicious. He willed himself to calm down, but since anxiety was a sure-fire boner killer it didn’t take long. By the time they got to the door and unlocked it, Richie was a usual level of unkempt and Eddie was staving off a panic attack. Without looking behind him, Richie’s hand found his, squeezed it once, then slipped away as he stepped in.

“Helloooo campers!” he sang, and just like that, Eddie’s stress levels shot through the ceiling.

They were accosted almost immediately by a frantic Bill. “Oh my god, there you are! You’ve been gone all afternoon!” he said, grabbing hold of Richie’s jacket and hauling him further into the lakehouse. “We were worried, you morons. You stopped answering your messages!”

“What are you, our mother?” Eddie asked, a little strained. His heart was knocking about his ribcage like an angry bee, and he was a little afraid it would manage to get loose. He pushed past Richie, his whole body coming alight just from touching him, and made his way to the kitchen. Fuck, this was going to be hard.

He got his new inhaler out of the pharmacy bag and triggered it down his throat as he heard Richie explain, “So we stuck around Derry for a little longer. We’re big boys, we could handle it. Even brought you back presents, you ungrateful swine.” 

“You’re lucky Bev isn’t here, she went out for a walk with Ben but she said she was going to go down to Derry herself if you didn’t - wait, presents?”

“Yep. Oh how the tune gets changed, young Billiam.”

Stan was sat up at the breakfast bar, and as Eddie triggered his inhaler for a second time he raised a brow. “Really needed it, huh?”

Eddie gave a jerky nod. “Something like that.”

“Richie seems in a good mood. I honestly thought you’d gone to drown him in the lake.”

Eddie watched Richie slap one of the ‘I Love Derry’ baseball caps on Bill’s greying head and pull him over to where Mike was sitting on the couch, watching with suspicion. Richie gripped onto Bill tight so he couldn’t wriggle free. The ghosts of those hands were still running up his body, cupping his face, gripping parts of his hair. “It may have crossed my mind once or twice,” he said absently.

Richie noticed his scrutiny and blew him a kiss. Eddie flipped him off, heat rushing to his face without warning.

“What was it like? Derry?” Stan asked.

Eddie frowned. Any answer he had included Richie in it, and he didn’t think he could handle that straightaway. He ended up giving a loose shrug and replied, “It was. An experience.”

“Really?”

Richie looked up from his failed attempt to wrestle Mike into one of the ‘I Left My Heart In Derry’ T-shirts and said gleefully, “Eddie defended my honour.”

He flushed. Okay, Richie clearly wasn’t going to make this any easier. “And Eddie has been regretting it ever since,” he answered, determined to look anywhere but at Richie. When Stan looked curious, he sighed. “There was… an incident.”

“Eddie shouted at some children and it was awesome.”

As every horrified face swivelled around to look at him, Eddie glared. “There was context.”

“He threatened to maim them.”

“One,” Eddie corrected. “I threatened to maim _one_ child.”

“You threatened actual children?” Mike questioned, his eyes wide. “Really, man?”

Richie’s eyes were dancing with mirth. “Kid called me old and Eddie turned total psychopath. It was hot.”

Eddie wanted to throw something at him. “H-he was blocking our way and being a shithead.”

“Eddie also called him a fucking demon. To his _mom._ ” Shit, Richie was really enjoying it. “That is some high scale trauma right there.”

A door burst open at the exact moment Eddie opened his mouth to argue the kid deserved to be traumatised, and Beverly stormed through it with a glare zeroing in on Richie. He froze in place, the Derry shirt over Mike’s head but hanging around his neck, and threw the bag at her. “TAKE SOMETHING JUST DON’T KILL ME.”

 _Oh, yeah_ , Eddie thought as Beverly launched herself at him, _this was normal._

* * *

That night, Eddie couldn’t sleep. His phone kept him awake, buzzing like a trapped wasp whenever Myra messaged him or tried to call. His mind continued to race, the way he always liked to let it after a long day. Like a dog off its leash, it ran circles around Richie, and kissing Richie, and touching Richie, and wanting Richie here with him, right now, so he could be kissed and touched again. Eddie fisted his hands in the bedsheets and heaved out a sigh. His body was on edge, poised in a primeval sort of way to run or fight, and he wasn’t sure which one it wanted to do most.

Richie had been so close all night; so close, and yet not close enough. Once Beverly stopped playfully beating him up, it had devolved into any other night together. They had food (Stan’s specialty this time). They drank. They laughed. They teased. And all the time Richie was sat across from him, talking to Ben about his act and Ben’s newest project, and his eyes kept glancing over to Eddie. They picked out a different part of him each time – his eyes, his throat, his arms – before they slid effortlessly back to Ben or whoever was talking.

If he had been looking this much before, Eddie wasn’t sure how he’d managed to miss it. He almost wanted to tell him to stop, it was too obvious, everyone could tell from a fucking _mile_ away – but no one said anything. Ben laughed at Richie’s joke about the phallic properties of skyscrapers, Mike put on a Swing playlist that made everyone try to sing along badly, and Stan FaceTimed Patty so she could watch Bill and Beverly arguing about whether a sewing machine could be used as a murder weapon. No one noticed. No one cared. But Eddie could feel it, like little pinpricks in his skin. And Richie, the fucker, didn’t break so much as a sweat.

It was driving him crazy, the way Richie could slide into these other forms of himself without even batting an eyelid. He was like a Russian doll, with layers and layers of Voices and quips and faces that he put on for specific people until you reached the centre and found the small, imperfect Richie Tozier. The real one. Eddie had always been certain he knew that version, the one who joked with his friends, looked out for them and would happily die for any of them; but the Richie Tozier he saw on the lakeshore, the one who was candid and angry and then soft and steady, made him think he was wrong. Richie was an expert at hiding parts of himself away, and that twisted his stomach up in all kinds of knots.

 _I want him,_ he wanted to cry out. _I want him here with me._

And then another, quieter voice, asked: _what’s stopping you?_

He stared up at the ceiling, listening for the tell-tale signs of sleepy noises from his friends in the other rooms to quieten and vanish completely, before he smothered his phone with a pillow, slipped out of bed and crept to the door.

He moved down the hall quietly, scarcely daring to breathe in case someone heard. As he reached the living space and saw the lump that was on the couch, he almost lost his nerve. But he wanted this. He _wanted_. He cleared his throat.

“Richie?”

The lump stirred. “Mmph?”

“Richie.”

“Wossit?” Richie’s head poked out of his nest of blankets, hair stuck up at every angle imaginable. He blinked blearily, and Eddie realised he probably couldn’t see him. He stepped into the light, where the windows were. Richie’s eyes sparked with recognition. “Eds?” He fumbled for his glasses and slid them on, immediately more alert. “Everything alright?”

Eddie swallowed painfully. “Yeah. Everything-everything’s fine, I just, um.” C’mon, he had to learn to talk. He had to do this. “Did you… did you want to come in with me?”

The look on Richie’s face made his stomach twist. It was clear that he wanted that very much. He was also now definitely awake. “Uh. Are you sure?” he whispered.

Eddie bit his lip, his hands fumbling with the buttons on his pyjama shirt. “I’m pretty sure, dumbass, why else would I wake you up at 3 in the morning?”

“Because you’re a sadist?” Richie paused. “Eds, if I come in with you, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.”

Okay. So he needed to be clearer. “Richie…” Eddie started to unbutton his shirt, keeping his eyes fixed on him as he did so. “I want you.” Richie’s eyes trawled up his body inch by inch, button by button. “To come to bed.” His eyes got wider, more hungry. “With me.” Eddie shrugged the shirt off completely. “Is that so hard to understand?” 

Richie was up from the couch and moving towards him before Eddie could think of any other ways to convince him. Richie put a hand to his face and pulled Eddie to him, his kiss so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. “Fucking _hell,_ Eds,” Richie breathed between kisses, his hands running across his back like they were trying to memorise it, “you can’t do that shit to me when I’m only semi-conscious, that was a fucking striptease, what the fuck.”

“Someone has to take the fucking initiative. And I took off my shirt, I can hardly call that a striptease.”

“You took off an item of clothing, that’s attractive as fuck.”

“Sssh, you’ll wake someone up.”

“I know some _thing_ that’s woken up, alright.”

“Oh my god, come on before I change my mind.”

He led Richie into his room by the hand like he was sneaking him into his mom’s house, and once the door was shut behind them Richie kissed him again, this one a little more conscious and awake. Eddie could taste the hint of beer he’d been drinking that night, and he wrinkled his nose at it. Richie noticed, and a heavy chuckle broke up the kisses. “Need me to brush my teeth?” he asked, nuzzling their noses together. He only sounded half joking, and Eddie considered it. He shook his head, pressing their lips together again. “No, you just… gotta get better taste man, shit. Beer is disgusting.”

“Alright, snob.”

“I’m not a snob just because I have a palate that’s more refined than a dive bar flo-ah!” Richie’s hand had wandered down low, clutching at his ass through the fabric of his pyjamas. He dug his nails into Richie’s shoulders, causing him to hiss through his teeth, and ducked down to bite his lip, not hard enough to bruise. “Cheat,” he mumbled against his mouth, like he was a fucking kid being beaten on an arcade game. Richie smiled into the kiss and squeezed, causing Eddie to smack his arm with a gentle curse.

He crowded Richie back, insistent, and when the back of his legs hit the bed he went down obediently, dragging Eddie down with him. He let the frustrations of the evening come out; every sidelong glance, every lingering touch, every stupid joke with a double meaning, Eddie let Richie know it by running his tongue over his and licking his way into his mouth, tasting him, keeping him. They stayed that way for a while, Eddie on top of him and Richie’s hands all over him, until Richie rolled them over and broke the kiss. He stared down at him, panting.

“Eddie,” he warned, his voice seemingly an octave lower than usual.

Eddie understood. “I know.” He could feel him, pressing against his thigh. He was pretty sure Richie could feel him too.

They stared at one another, slowly getting their breath back. Eddie gave the bottom of his shirt a little tug. “Can this come off?” he asked. Richie hesitated for just long enough for Eddie to let it go. He remembered the lake. How he’d kept his shirt on. “It doesn’t have to.”

“Thanks.” Richie tried to smile. “I, uh – I’d rather keep it on. No one wants to see that.”

“I want to see that,” Eddie said, not able to help himself.

Richie didn’t respond to that. He just dropped his head so it was nestled against Eddie’s collarbone and Eddie played with his hair, tangling some strands around his fingers as their chests rose and fell together. This felt – intimate. It wasn’t rough like in his dreams, wasn’t passionate like the way he was pinned down and ravaged by the dream version of Richie. But it was nice. It was really fucking nice. It was better.

When Richie moved, grinding his hips against Eddie’s just hard enough to make him bite his lip, he looked a little too serious for Eddie’s liking. “Tell me what you want.”

Eddie tensed.

“Talk, Eds. Use your words, you got plenty of ‘em.”

Eddie considered it. “Do you have any condoms?”

“Oookay, Jesus fucking-” Richie sat back, straddling his hips as he clapped a hand to his mouth. “G-gimme a second, Eds, god.” For one blissfully innocent moment, Eddie didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. And then Richie’s hand snaked down and palmed himself roughly, eyes sliding shut, and Eddie got the message. Oh, shit. Richie was thinking about fucking Eddie or Eddie fucking him, and he was touching himself. Eddie wanted to ask which way he was thinking. Jesus Christ, what was he doing?

“G-going straight for the big leagues, are we?” Richie squeaked, once he appeared to have himself under control.

Eddie flushed. “Well, _I_ don’t fucking know, I haven’t exactly done this before!”

“Well I don’t have condoms,” Richie hissed, “because funnily enough I wasn’t planning to get laid during a weekend away with _my childhood friends._ Also we don’t just have to do _that_ , it takes…preparation. It’s a lot. I don’t want to fucking scar you.”

“Ugh, shut up, I didn’t think, okay?” Eddie frowned. “What… else is there?”

Richie dropped his hand from his face. “You better be joking.” When he determined that Eddie really, really wasn’t, he almost looked sad. “Oh, you poor little soldier.”

Eddie flushed. “Okay, fine, so I’m not the karma sutra of men, I have only had vanilla, missionary sex before and I’ve only ever _heard_ of-”

“You’ve not even had a-”

“You know what, no, I am not discussing my sexual history with you.”

Richie held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, well. C’mon. Talk to me.”

“About what?”

Richie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “About the latest thing you had to risk analyse. What do you think?”

Eddie huffed. He wasn’t sure he could. He wasn’t sexy. He couldn’t say anything that sounded remotely attractive – but he was starting to get soft, and he didn’t want that. So he swallowed painfully and slid his hands up Richie’s thighs slowly, grounding himself. This was sort of like analysis. He picked out the features of something that made it dangerous, made it unsafe, and calculated how high the risk was of it happening. He could pick out Richie’s features. He knew precisely two things he liked him doing, and the probability of a disaster occurring? Well. That depended.

“Okay. Fine.” He took a breath. “I want you to… to touch me.”

He waited for Richie to make some sort of stupid joke, but he didn’t. He just nodded. “Good start. Where?”

Eddie stared up at him. “On my dick, preferably.” Richie snorted and clapped a hand back over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with the force of his laugh. “Okay, okay, shit I’m not good at this. Okay.” Eddie tried again. “I… like the way you touch me. You touch me kinda… soft. Careful. Like I’ll break. I kind of want you to touch me like that everywhere, but maybe a little harder.”

Richie wet his lips and nodded. “Uh huh. How about this?” He crawled forward and ran a hand up his chest, his fingers brushing slowly over his nipples. Eddie arched into the touch, seeking, and he pinched them gently. Eddie jerked with a strangled cry, pleasure flooding through him as well as a flash of pain, and immediately grabbed a pillow to hide his face. Fuck.

Richie chuckled. “Guess that’s a yes.”

Eddie scowled at him over the top of the pillow, and Richie snatched it away from him. “What else?”

“Y-your mouth.” Richie raised both eyebrows at that, willing him to continue. “I like it when you kiss me sloppy, fucking gross, like you’re… you’re claiming me.”

Richie’s breathing hitched. The hand already on him squeezed, just gently. “Oh,” he sighed, and Eddie suddenly wanted to push his hand out of the way and get there first. “O-okay, think we got stuff to work with.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Richie dived down to ensnare Eddie’s lips with his, and he found himself relaxing. Richie listened; his hands didn’t stop moving, down his sides and up his chest, cupping his face. Eddie thought back to his dreams where the Richies there were assertive, even dominant, and realised they were nothing like the real thing. The real Richie was careful, asked questions, was almost scared to do something wrong. It was so unlike anything Eddie had expected, but he wasn’t complaining. Definitely not.

When Richie’s hands moved down to hike his hips up so that they were grinding against one another Eddie let it happen, his thighs either side of Richie and squeezing. He rocked them like this, every movement sending sparks and curling Eddie’s toes. It felt like Richie could fuck him, _really_ fuck him, be inside him and all around him and thrusting; but then he also imagined Richie straddling him and sinking down on his twitching cock, riding him slow and lingering.

He fought down the moans that rose up in him at the thought and wriggled his hand down between their bodies, trying to touch himself. Richie grabbed his wrist and brought it back to the side, holding it there with a smile. “Nuh uh uh, hands off. Don’t worry, I’ll get to it.”

“You better get to it soon because I think I’m gonna-”

Richie cut him off by dropping his legs and kissing down his neck, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth as he let out a moan that was definitely loud enough to be heard. “Gotta keep quiet, love,” he murmured, and Eddie nearly came from how husky and kiss-drunk his voice sounded.

Richie didn’t stop at his neck this time; he moved his way down his body, keeping the kisses slow and open-mouthed the way Eddie had said he liked them. He ran a tongue along Eddie’s nipple until he saw him grimace, and replaced it with a hand, gently kneading as he kissed down lower. Eddie’s breathing hitched as he realised where he was headed, and as he reached his hip bones, jutting just above the waistband of his pants, he dared to put his hand on Richie’s head and push him down further, down to where he wanted him, where he needed him.

He let go immediately, embarrassed, and Richie stopped. He peered up at him from his spot, fingers dancing across his waistband enticingly. “Is this okay?”

“With your- with your mouth?” Eddie asked dumbly.

Richie nodded.

Eddie frowned. “You… you want that too?”

Richie smiled. “Yeah. I really want that too.”

“O-okay, you’re the expert.”

Richie snorted, gently pushing the waistband of his trousers down. “God, you’re a dweeb,” he commented. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

Eddie began to argue that he wasn’t hot, not really, Richie was the one who was hot, and then the chill of his painfully hard cock exposed to the elements made it die in his throat. Richie was looking at him. He was looking at _all_ of him. Eddie couldn’t do it; he pressed his head back into the pillow and hissed, “Fuck,” as Richie buried his nose in the dark hair he found at the base of him.

Richie ran his tongue in a slow line up the length of his cock; Eddie could feel it, even more so with his eyes closed. Then Richie had a hand on him, on the base, holding him steady – and then. And then.

Well, fuck.

Richie Tozier was giving him a fucking blowjob.

When his lips closed over the head, Eddie’s hips jerked up of their own accord. Richie pinned them down patiently as he licked and sucked over the tip, tasting the precum Eddie knew was gathered there, always was, he got wet like that easy and Myra always hated it but – focus. This wasn’t about her. This was Richie. Before he could think about it too much, Richie began to bob his head in slow, languid sucks, and Eddie slowly lost his mind.

“Oh god, oh _fuck_ ,” he swore, curling his hands into fists either side of him as he sank into the bed. He tried to move his hips again, tried to buck up desperately into that mouth, but the hand holding him down was surprisingly strong. The thought that Richie _could_ pin him down completely if he ever felt like it sent heat snarling into the pit of his stomach. Richie seemed to waver for a moment, unsure, and then took one of Eddie’s hands and placed it on his head in quiet encouragement. Eddie got the message. It was _You’re in control. You say if it’s too fast or too slow. Use me._

He fisted his hand in Richie’s hair loose instead, clamping his other hand onto his mouth to stop the moans spilling out as Richie worked his mouth down further, his tongue licking down the side as he went. At one point he even used his teeth, just a little, and that nearly sent Eddie to the ceiling. A gentle squeeze to his hip brought him back down to earth. He looked down – and immediately wished he hadn’t. Richie had moved his glasses up to the top of his head, and the sight of his mouth stretched around his cock made Eddie physically _whimper_. “R-Richie, please…”

Richie slid up and off with an obscenely wet popping noise, and he grinned up at him hazily. “I want you to look at me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

That heat in his stomach increased. “I won’t be able to last if I do that,” Eddie said. “R-Rich, I’m close, I can’t-”

“I can take it.” Richie dragged his tongue slowly up the underside of his cock again, not breaking eye contact the whole time. “If you need to come, just come, baby. I won’t stop you.”

Jesus, this was what was going to fucking kill him, Eddie thought mutely. Not asthma, not sepsis, Richie Tozier sucking his fucking dick.

When Richie sank down on him again, he moved faster, bobbing his head up and down with fervour and licking and sucking as he went. Eddie tilted his head back with a barely contained moan, but Richie’s tight squeeze brought him back. His eyes commanded him. _Look at me. Watch me. Watch me bring you to the edge, dangle you over a little, then push you off._

And Eddie did. He watched. His breath came in short pants.

Richie was moaning around his cock now, jerking him off from the base as well as tonguing a spot just under the head to get his entire body quaking. The heat was roaring in his ears, the pleasure building up and up, and Eddie tugged on Richie’s hair to get his attention, to warn him, but Richie just glanced up at him through his lashes, slid down as far as he could go, and _swallowed._

Eddie couldn’t stop himself. The wave crested, crashed, surged. With a choked sob, Eddie came harder than he ever had. Richie finally released his hips as they pumped forward, spilling into his mouth with a few whimpers and gentle cries of his name, and his throat bobbed eagerly as he swallowed it all. The thought crossed Eddie’s mind that it was both incredibly hot and absolutely disgusting, but he didn’t dwell on it too long.

He waited until Richie had pulled off of him, licking his lips in an obscene way that sparked something dimly, and then tugged his hair up, asking. Richie obeyed, crawling back up to meet him with a simple kiss to his chin. He was still hard. “It’s fine,” Richie said, “I can take care of myse- _augh_.” Eddie had already thrust his hand down the front of his boxers, wrapping his hand around his cock and giving him a few gentle strokes. Richie pressed his head to his shoulder, moaning into his skin as he quickened the pace. He wasn’t sure what to do, was just doing what _he_ liked, but it seemed to be working. Richie was close. He could tell. He was mouthing kisses wetly by his collarbone, his body heaving with pants. “Mmph, Eddie, oh fuck, Eddie t-talk to me, m’close, please.”

Eddie gulped. He wasn’t sexy. Wasn’t sexy at all. But he could do this, he could be honest. “You were… you looked so good with your mouth around my dick like that,” he sighed, rubbing his thumb against the tip of Richie’s cock as he did so. “So… so good to me, I don’t think I’ve come that hard before.”

Richie’s hips stuttered as he kept up a fast pace, his eyes shut tight as the orgasm started to reach him. “Fuck, Eddie, you come so pretty, never thought I’d get to see it, feel it, tasted good…”

Eddie leant in close to his ear and whispered, “then you better return the favour. Let me see you come for me, Rich, c’mon.”

It didn’t take long. Eddie gave him a few more tight pumps with his fist and Richie tensed, eyes scrunched tight. He came over both of them and bit down on Eddie’s shoulder to muffle his cry, rocking himself slowly against Eddie to keep the feeling going. Eddie hissed through his teeth at the flash of pain, but brought Richie’s face to his and thrust his tongue in his mouth, tasting himself with a grimace as Richie enthusiastically returned it, a final moan thrumming deep in his throat.

When they broke the kiss, Eddie noticed tear tracks down Richie’s face. “Hey, what’s wrong? Was I that bad?” he asked. He was only half joking.

Richie snorted, brushing them away. “No, fuck, not that, I just…”

_Never thought I’d get to see it._

Eddie kissed him again, drawing it out before he murmured, “It’s okay,” like he knew what the fuck he was doing. “That was… that was pretty fucking good.”

Richie gave a weak laugh, nuzzling their heads together. “It wasn’t my best,” he admitted. “I’m, uh, out of practice.”

“Richie.” Eddie levelled his head with his own, almost glaring at him. “It was so good. I came so hard I think I saw God.”

Richie blinked. “Oh, uh, okay.” How he got so flustered over something so honest and simple woke up the butterflies in Eddie’s stomach.

He rolled his eyes fondly. “You’re hopeless. We need to clean up.”

Even though it pained him to leave, he shifted away from Richie, pulled up his underwear and pyjama pants and crossed the room to his door. It was so much harder, Eddie realised, to get to a bathroom secretly when there were actual people in the house with him. It felt like a covert spy mission, sneaking across the hall and reaching the door before someone got out and asked what the hell he was doing in the middle of the night. _Using the bathroom. That’s the obvious answer, you idiot, nothing else_. But they would know. They just would.

Eddie cleaned up quickly, wanting nothing more than to be back in bed with Richie curled around him, and that reminder sent a tired ache of arousal through him. His brain very helpfully reminded him that the come he was washing off his hand and body wasn’t his, but Richie’s – _you made him come like that, you, you told him to do it and he did –_ and he twitched at the memory. Eddie scowled down at himself. “Oh no, you are not doing this to me now,” he informed it. “You are good for one go and that’s it. You and I both know this. Get yourself together.”

When he slipped back into his room, Richie was waiting for him. He was sat on the edge of his bed, his shirt bundled up in his hands and his glasses back on his face. He looked up, and he pressed the fabric closer to his body almost instinctively, hiding his stomach. “Welcome back, Spagheds.”

Eddie closed the door. “Where else would I go?”

Richie shrugged, fingers creasing in the material he clutched so close to him. “Timbukto?” he tried.

Eddie wavered at the edge of the bed, biting his lip. He decided to climb onto him, his knees either side of Richie’s legs. They cracked. He winced. _Fuck,_ old, old, old. He hovered there instead, smoothing a hand against Richie’s cheek and smiling at the patches of stubble that were rough under his touch. Richie just stared up at him, a little dumbstruck, and Eddie suddenly had the realisation that part of Richie hadn’t expected him to come back. Somewhere down the line, probably back when he was more closeted than he was now, someone had left Richie on his own once they were done. He’d fucked him and ran, left Richie to pick up the pieces. Anger for an unknown, faceless man bubbled up within him, and he only soothed it with a gentle kiss to Richie’s lips.

Richie slid his eyes shut and kept them that way, even when Eddie moved back, like he was trying to memorise the feel of Eddie around him. He played with Richie’s hair delicately – always, his hair – and made a point of not touching his bare torso with any part of his body. He wasn’t sure Richie wanted that. He was going to have to learn all this, remember it too. He could handle it. He could. He just wanted this, here with Richie like there was nothing else to worry about. But this was the early morning, the sun hadn’t even come up, and it was the time for being brave. Once they slept, once the day came around, it would be difficult again.

Even though he didn’t want it to come, tiredness itched at the corners of his eyes and he was sure Richie felt it too. “We should sleep,” he mumbled against Richie’s skin, and he got a half-coherent grunt in response. “Wanna get another shirt?”

“S’alright,” Richie replied, suppressing a yawn. “M’too tired.”

“I don’t mind, if you feel more-”

“Lights are off,” Richie observed. “You can’t see shit unless you got infrared vision.”

Eddie hesitated. “You’ve got nothing to hide, you know.”

“Says you.” Richie shrugged. “C’mon, Eddie, you got your things, I got mine. It’s better that you don’t look, don’t want you to run screaming.”

“ _Rich._ ”

“Eds.”

Eddie gave up. “Okay, well… if you’re sure.”

He clambered off him and moved to the head of the bed, slipping under the covers as he did so. His body still felt a little boneless, wobbly. It was almost giddiness. Richie followed suit, a yawn escaping his mouth as he drew the covers up around them. Eddie almost told him that he loved him, in that moment where they tangled themselves up in each other and began to sink into sleep, but the words stuck in his throat.

But it was okay, he thought as he took Richie’s hand, because he’d find the courage. Someday soon.

* * *

Eddie slept, and he didn’t dream.

* * *

He was woken by a dull buzz just below his ear. He swatted the air above his head, frowning as he seemed to keep missing it. Someone made an unintelligible noise next to him, and Eddie froze. For a split second, he thought he’d either gone into one of the others’ rooms by mistake or there was an extremely friendly burglar snuggling up to him – and then he remembered.

Turning his head, he cracked an eye open to see Richie beside him, the covers pulled up to his chin and a sleepy frown on his face. Eddie flushed as Richie’s arm came around his bare torso, drew him in, pressed him close. _Oh, yeah. That happened._ “Turn’t ‘ff,” Richie mumbled into the pillow, half-eating it in the process.

“M’tryin’,” he replied, more a noise than actual words. The buzzing persisted until he realised, in his half-awake state, that the buzzing was coming from underneath him instead of the air. He frowned, patting the bed for a trapped insect of some kind, until he saw that Richie got there first.

“Here, got it,” he slurred, bringing it up to his face. “Fuckin’ stupid-ass buzz getting’ in my head and wakin’ me-” he stopped. He gazed at the phone screen for a moment, his eyes both open now. Eddie’s stomach lurched. He knew what he was looking at. Richie was looking at the picture of Myra that popped up when she called. It was the first time he’d ever seen her.

It was a picture they had taken on their second or third date, when Eddie had admitted he hadn’t visited some of the more famous spots of New York since he’d moved there. It was Myra’s suggestion to pretend to be tourists, so they’d booked tickets on a tour bus and spent the day wandering around landmarks and making up their own personal backstories as they went. It had been a fun day. The picture Richie was looking at was the one they’d taken in Central Park, when Myra had demanded a selfie and Eddie had protested they were too old for that. They were frozen mid-laugh. It was before Myra knew about the dreams, before the arguments. Before the proposal. They had been happy. Perhaps that was how it should have stayed.

Eddie gulped. “Richie?” He reached out a hand. “Can I have my-?”

Richie started, as if Eddie had shaken him awake. “Yeah… yeah, sorry, uh, here.” He passed it over.

Eddie, like an asshole, let the call ring out. It felt like watching someone drown. He didn’t look at Richie. When it finally stopped vibrating, he dropped it back down onto the bed. He felt – dirty. The levity of the situation dropped onto him like a rock from height. His fiancée was calling him at 7:30 in the morning whilst he was in bed with his best friend, having had the best sex of his life the night before with said best friend, and he might be in love with him. It was – a lot, to say the least.

“So,” Richie said, piercing the silence, “that was Myra.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. That’s… that’s her.”

Richie bit his lip. “She’s pretty.”

Eddie frowned. “Thanks…?”

“You should answer it.” Richie was sitting up now, dragging a hand through his hair. “It might be important.”

Eddie looked down at his phone, then back at Richie. “You’re important,” he said.

Richie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m flattered, but really. You should… you should talk to her. She’ll think you’re dead in a ditch somewhere if you don’t.”

Eddie wanted to argue, but it was pretty likely Myra would come to that conclusion and start ringing the local hospitals. He sighed. “I guess I should.”

Richie nodded. “I’ll just… give you some space.” He scooted off the bed and grabbed his glasses, as well as his shirt from the night before. To Eddie’s surprise, he didn’t try to hide his stomach – maybe he was still too sleepy for that – and he smiled as he drew closer to his side. He was… hairy. On the larger side, maybe. But he was Richie, and he was gorgeous, and he liked it. He quirked a brow at the scrutiny, and Eddie just took his hand and pulled him down for a kiss, soft and sweet. Richie didn’t kiss him back. He pulled away, shaking his head. “C’mon man, call her.” His voice sounded a little choked.

Eddie sighed. “Okay… okay.” As Richie reached the door, he looked up. “Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t be long, okay?”

Richie smiled. “Yeah. I know.”

When the door clicked shut, Eddie looked down at his phone, his stomach churning. Well. It was going to happen eventually. He could do this. It was sooner than he’d wanted, he was still a little sleepy and the rising panic was creeping back up his throat the longer he was awake for – but Richie was outside. He was waiting for him. He bit his lip, took a breath, and dialled.

* * *

It lasted a little longer than he expected. Myra tried to pretend they hadn’t argued the day before, the way she always did, and Eddie let her talk. She told him about her day, her shift, how much she missed him. They were common topics, and all in the same order. She didn’t ask about the dreams. Eddie bunched his hands up in his bedsheets, biting his lip. He couldn’t tell her, not over the phone. He’d been enough of an asshole already; enabling her, leading her on, convincing her that what they were doing wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the entire universe.

Why couldn’t she see how bad, how fucking awful, they were? Maybe it was hope; hope that it could be okay if they tried hard enough, if they stuck at it. It was this thought that got Eddie brave enough to clear his throat. “Can we – can we talk when I get back, Myra?” he asked.

“We’re talking right now, Eddiebear,” she said, with a small chuckle.

“I know.” God, he really was an asshole. “I mean a proper talk. About… about the wedding.”

“Of course we can! There’s still so much to organise, and it’s so hard doing it without you.” He could almost hear the pout in her voice. “It’s not so fun. It’ll be good to have you back all to myself after this, and all your friends can go back to their lives without bothering you so much.”

He knew what that meant. He recognised the tone in her voice. He cast his gaze over to the rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed, the pillow that had been Richie’s the previous night. He reached over, tracing the indent he found there with a giddy flip of his stomach. “That… that’s what we need to talk about.”

The slightest of pauses before a stiff, “okay” made him wonder if she knew what was coming. It might be cruel, making her wait until he was back in New York, but it seemed even crueller to end it this way, sat on a bed that smelt of Richie and him, together. Once he hung up forty minutes later, after listening to Myra carefully pick apart almost every one of his friends to put him off inviting them to the wedding (“His books never sell”, “those buildings are ugly”, “her designs are slutty”), determination sat strong in his mind. He was going to do it. He’d leave Myra. He’d call off the wedding, he’d leave and then he would find Richie. He would ask Richie to be with him, he would love him, he would learn how to do it properly.

Biting his lip around a smile, he abandoned his phone and went to the door. Maybe he didn’t have to wait too long for that. Maybe he could start now. He could try to sweep Richie up in his arms and inevitably fail because Richie was a tree trunk and he was a sapling. Collapsing into a pile on a couch didn’t sound like a bad idea either. After that, he could kiss him in front of the others. He could certainly _try_ , at least.

“Richie!” he called out as he came down the hallway. “Rich, it’s fine, I’m done, I’m going to tell her it’s-”

He stopped.

Because Richie wasn’t in the living space.

The couch he slept on, usually bundled up with blankets and clothes this time in the morning, was haphazardly made and the blankets thrown on top. There was also a considerable lack of clothes strewn about. There was a considerable lack of anything to suggest Richie was there at all.

 _He’s in the shower,_ Eddie reasoned, _that had to be it, he was gross, he didn’t clean up properly after last night._ But he couldn’t hear any running water. He moved back down to the bathroom and knocked, just to make sure. “Rich?” he called out. No one answered. He waited, but when he turned the handle it swung open to reveal a very empty room.

Striding back into the living space, Eddie was beginning to worry. Where would he have gone? He wouldn’t have gone out with Beverly again, it was too early, and he wouldn’t go anywhere on his own, not here, not alone. All reasonable explanations were being lined up and shot down, and Eddie almost headed out the door to see if Richie was outside – when he spotted a scrap of notepaper, pinned under one of the shoddy Paul Bunyan statues. He picked it up, and his stomach plummeted as he saw the handwriting.

_‘Eddie,_

_I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t._

_Last night shouldn’t have happened. It meant more to me than you could ever know, but that doesn’t mean it was right. And then Myra called you, and I saw the picture of you together looking so fucking happy, and I realised what I was getting in the way of._

_So I’m doing what I should have done from the beginning: I’m bowing out. I’m giving you a fair shot. I can’t be a homewrecker. I can’t be your experiment, or your last night of freedom, or whatever you want to call it. You said yourself, you don’t know what you are, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose me over her. I’m not mad about it. I just know it’s not the same for you. Not really._

_Myra really is pretty, Eds. That wasn’t a bit. She looks like she loves you. I hate her, I really do, but only because she can give you shit I can’t. Maybe you wanting me is the wrong way, and you can love her the right way._

_Please don’t call me. Let me do the decent thing for once._

_R.’_

Eddie dropped the paper with shaking hands. No. No no no no no. He got it wrong, he got it wrong, oh _fuck_.

“Eddie? What are you doing up?”

He spun around to find Bev standing in the kitchen, hair still mussed from sleep. “Richie’s gone,” he said, and the sound of that reality on his lips sent a chill through him.

He dashed to the front door as Bev, wide awake now, snatched up the letter from the coffee table with a hiss of, “what the _fuck_?” He wrenched the door open, heart in his mouth, and stopped dead.

Richie’s Mustang was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo yeah. That happened. Richie is pretty self-sabotaging, it's true, but remember I break what I fix. Hope you stick around for the next chapter because that will be a fun ride, hoo boy.  
> Also I am veryyyy rusty at writing nsfw so I have no idea if it's any good - who knows? 
> 
> Mini shout out to my friend Alice, who is not in this fandom but is my willing victim when I talk plot. She stopped me from making the end scene even worse, so you have her to thank for that. 
> 
> See you next week if you haven't hunted me down first!~


	13. Richie Tozier does the right thing (and hates it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's pov: he goes through the motions of letting go, but he can't quite get there. He makes new friends, has a number of phonecalls with old ones and wants to tell everyone he's coping. He's certain.
> 
> This chapter is split into a few different timeskips leading up to Something, so I hope it makes sense. Richie's pretty self-deprecating here so hang on for that wild ride.
> 
> Find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf to yell at me and kudos & comment if you can, it's very much appreciated! :)

_24 hours later_

For Richie, coming back to his apartment after being away always felt stale, and meant confronting the reality of the person he actually was on his own. He’d made a joke once that going on holiday when you hated yourself never worked, because you were just _you_ , with all your issues and depression and baggage, just somewhere else. Like standing in front of a green screen, you could flick between backdrops for as long as you liked; you could be in the Bahamas, then Rome, then Alaska, but it was still the same you. The same stupid loser.

It always got a pity laugh, or maybe there were just a lot of manic depressives who enjoyed his stand-up. Richie really believed it, too. Until Maine. Until the lakehouse.

For those freak few days, he’d felt like another version of himself. A better one. A version that, apparently, had some sort of working moral compass. So sue him; facing the other one, the guy who drank bad beer (‘gotta get better taste’), avoided questions and was a general pain in the ass the second he got through the door, was too much for him.

He kicked his suitcase across the room, sank to the floor and cried for the third time that day.

Number one had been in the airport at one in the morning, waiting for his Red Eye. Number two belonged on the plane, when one of the male cabin crew had neat dark hair and sneered at someone ordering a cheap wine. This one, the grand ol’ number three? Because he could. And it exploded out of him in wracking, aching sobs.

He brought his knees up to his chest and held them the way he always had when he was a kid and he’d had a nightmare, or been beat pretty good by Bowers. He curled up tight, hating his body; his big stupid body that wouldn’t just fold away and vanish like he wanted it to. He was a crier, he’d fully accepted that; but a pain came with it, the ache of a wound ripping open fresh and bleeding out. So he sobbed. He pulled his hair. He threw a fucking tantrum, right there on the floor, because he was a forty year old man and he could have a moment in his own place without anyone seeing, thank you very much.

He stopped sometimes. He sniffled and stopped, and wondered if that was it, if he could get up and carry on with unpacking and cleaning and whatever else he needed to do. But this was just the in between, a moment when he was just _existing_ and didn’t feel anything. _Shutting down,_ a therapist had called it once. _You can’t cope, so you shut down. But then your body reminds you that you need to feel, so it hits you again._ Yeah, right. It hit like a fucking sledgehammer.

Richie liked to visualise that he was feverishly slapping band aids on himself when he was quiet, trying to plug up the fault lines cracking across him before they got bigger and reached deeper – but he never got there. He could keep it together in the back of his Uber, and he did a pretty good job of getting up the stairs without letting loose a whimper. But now? He could cry as loud as he fucking liked. The band aids wouldn’t stop him here. He wasn’t even sure where he was getting the tears from; they just kept coming, cutting their paths down his face and stinging as they went.

And all this? Because he’d been a good fucking person. Richie had come to a conclusion, driving away from the lakehouse at top speed, as to why people didn’t often do the right thing. It was because Doing The Right Thing fucking _sucked_.

But he had to do it. Had to do it for Eddie, of all people. He deserved it. The married men he’d been with, they were easy. They were closeted, questioning or just bored. Richie fulfilled a purpose, a service, and he felt very little whilst doing it. But Eddie? No. There was no way he could close the fucking door on his emotions, because Eddie propped it open. He talked about wanting him. He closed the gap first, he tried to take control even though he was so scared of doing it. And Richie, stupid and hopeful, had believed him for a few blissful hours. He believed Eddie Kaspbrak could love someone like him.

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as the image of Myra popped back into his head. The way Eddie had fucking stared at that picture on his phone, his eyes wide and full of fear, and then left it to ring out in his hand couldn’t ever be lost on Richie. He’d thrown it down on the covers and let it lay there like a dead spider, not wanting to acknowledge it but knowing he had to. It reminded Richie he wasn’t available.

It reminded him of the anonymous nights, where a phone was picked up, a sudden curse of, “shit, it’s my wife” uttered, and the silent demand to leave the room. Sometimes they made him stay – that was worse. Once, and never again, one of them kept on fucking him as he talked to his wife about picking their kid up from soccer practice. He’d not put a single word out of place. It was clinical. Practiced. _Easy._ At least, he figured, it hadn’t been that. But watching the person he’d been in love with for an embarrassing amount of time cast aside his phone like that, scared and angry and somehow detached, could be a close fucking second.

Myra was a big woman, taller than Eddie with bobbed blonde hair and a beaming smile. She looked like a customer service employee’s worst nightmare – but then again, so did Eddie in the right mood. It had struck him then, as it did slumped on the floor of his apartment at 9am, that he had no idea who Myra really was. He’d seen Eddie angry with her, defeated by shit she’d said, but what did that matter? She could be the victim. She could be the wife asking her husband about little Timmy’s soccer practice. And Richie was the bad guy, the Other Man, the one who fucked it all up and was trying to keep quiet in case the call picked up the sound of his laboured breathing. He’d made it happen. He’d pounced like a fucking predator when Eddie was vulnerable. It was his fault. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stew for a while.

He stayed on the floor, sobbing at frequent intervals, for most of his first day back in LA. He turned on his phone and watched his screen pile up with missed calls and texts from all of them: Beverly, Ben, Bill, Mike, Stan. Eddie was clearly listening to the note, because his name didn’t appear amongst them. Richie wasn’t sure if he was glad of it or not. Sifting through them, he spotted one from _Steve-O the Boss-O._ Work. That could distract him.

It was 3pm when he eventually felt numb enough to call him. Steve picked up after the third ring. “I thought you’d run off,” he greeted.

Richie didn’t have the energy for a Trashmouth response, but he plucked something from a back catalogue anyway. “Your mom told me to come back cus she needed the rest.” It landed dead, but Steve seemed to take the bait. The slight chuckle down the phone confirmed it. “I’m back in LA, so I wondered if there was anything last minute knocking about.”

Steve sounded like he was diving for his laptop, if the tell-tale sound of fluttering files was anything to go by. “Uh, well, sure, probably, might be some comedy club stuff going begging. Won’t pay that much and it won’t be long sets. Unless they’re desperate.”

“You sure know how to woo your clients.” With a grimace, Richie stood up. His knees clicked painfully, but part of him relished it. Better that pain than the one in his chest.

“Hey, last minute is last minute, man, these guys won’t have time to shop around. They’ll just need an act, and they’ll pay big.”

“Don’t worry about fees.” He shuffled to his kitchen, to the drawer with all the takeout menus he could possibly want. Fuck cooking. “Just wanna get back out there.”

“It’s not been that long, big man, you’ll make me feel bad!” Steve’s pause was heavy with suspicion. “How come you came back so early? You said you were bailing for a week.”

Richie paused over his feeble perusal of his menus. “Change of plans.”

“Are you… are you okay? You don’t sound-”

“Steve, Jesus, can you get out of my fucking ass for one second?” he snapped. “Sorry I can’t be your performing monkey all the time.”

“Wow, alright, big guy. Chill. Was just asking.” Richie’s blood boiled. He knew he was getting angry for the wrong reasons and at the wrong guy, but he couldn’t exactly shout at his own reflection. Besides, it beat crying. “Look, I’m allowed to care,” Steve was saying. “I get I’m your manager, but I’m also-”

“My friend, yeah yeah yeah I know.” Richie pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the tears that pricked his eyes like needles. “Just… sort out some gigs if you can, yeah?”

“Will you do them sober?”

Richie sighed. No promises there. “To begin with,” he answered honestly.

“If that’s the best I’m gonna get, then that’s good enough for me.”

Steve promised to get in touch, and when he rang off Richie noticed three more missed calls had come hurtling in from Beverly, as well as three simple texts.

[From: Queen of my Life, Sent: 15:17]  
 _-Let me know you’re home  
-I won’t ask I just want to know you’re safe  
-Please don’t do anything stupid_

Richie wiped at his already streaming eyes and fired off two words – ones he hoped would keep her off his back for a little while.

[To: Queen of my Life, Sent: 15:20]  
 _-home safe._

He owed her – them – that, at least.

* * *

_3 days later_

Richie had a sure-fire routine when it came to handling having his heart metaphorically ripped out. The first few days were always the worst; when he paced around his apartment, through the hall and his minimal rooms, he was sure he’d look back and see the blood he was treading through them, staining his flooring with the stupid, dumb agony he didn’t deserve to have. His eyes stayed raw and red, like his own tears were punishing him with their stinging salt. They kept the wound open. Kept it fresh. He listened to Cher. He drank. He avoided his phone, except for Steve’s calls about work.

Then one day, something would change and he would be forced to leave the confines of his walls. He would run out of beer, or Cher’s claim that her lover didn’t know love if it walked through his door became a little old. This time, it was because he was sick of bringing up his takeout and ready meal diet under the lurching haze of Bud Lites. What he needed was good coffee, and he knew precisely where to get it.

So he showered. He shaved. He put on clothes that weren’t old T-shirts and boxers. He became a bit more human. That didn’t stop him from grabbing a pair of dark glasses off his side table to replace his salt-stained prescriptions. He had some semblance of pride, after all.

When he pushed the door of the coffee shop open, he felt fractured but stable. It was a step up from being in pieces. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the crowd of PAs and wannabe actors heading to auditions had ebbed. He could hear the delicate acoustic soundtrack for once, and the surfaces all looked clean.

“Richie Tozier, as I live and breathe!”

A familiar voice, soft and welcoming. Richie smiled. It felt alien. “Hey, Adey,” he croaked.

Adrian was leaning over the counter like he usually did, beaming. He had a blue streak in his hair today. There were several rainbow badges pinned to his apron, at least three more than usual. Richie swallowed painfully. Oh boy.

“How’s everything going, sugar?” Adrian trilled, beckoning him over to the counter. “You need a Tozier special?”

The thought of all those syrups wasn’t a pleasant one for his innards. “Just a flat white,” he answered. “Nothing fancy.”

Adrian’s smile slipped. “Oh, sure. Coming up. You wanna hit up a pew?”

Richie really did. He sat up to the counter as Adrian busied himself with the grinder, running a hand through his hair as he looked around the place. It really was quiet – quiet enough. The ripple of fear came up in him, the way it always did when he wanted to open himself up to someone new. It was a learning curve; staying shut like a clam for so long, not budging even when people picked him up and tried to prise him open, did things to a guy. It meant he kept whatever the fuck kinda pearl he had shut up tighter than ever.

He cleared his throat. “Where’s Don?” He had to start small. He’d build to it.

“Classes,” Adrian called over his shoulder. “Law school.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Pays well though. And he’s going to be great at it.” Adrian had pride in his voice. “He needs to know all the legislation to keep me out of trouble. That’s what he says.”

“Sounds like a match.”

“I’d say. I’m lucky to have him.” When Adrian turned back, he was smiling. “Now. Gonna stop making small talk and tell me who hurt you?”

Richie didn’t even flinch. “How could you tell?”

“You ordered a flat white at 3pm on a weekday, hon.”

He smiled weakly. “Guess you know my coffee habits too well.”

“I like to think I know _you_ that well.”

Richie took the proffered cup without a word. He stared intently into it, steeling himself. Here it came. The Moment. This wasn’t even a particularly big Moment; Adrian would be fine, obviously he would, but tell that to his psyche. “I went back to Derry, Ade.”

“Ohh.” Adrian leant closer. “You said you might! Guessing it wasn’t the trip you expected.”

Richie shook his head, blocking out the memory tree and the lake and the private smiles. “Not exactly, no.” He took a sip of his coffee and found it bitter and bland compared to his usual orders. This was the coffee he ordered when he felt like he needed to grow up, to suck it up and be a man – but it never did taste quite right. He idly debated on overdosing it with sugar for the next set of words out his mouth, but he bit down hard. “It was a bachelor party,” he said, and _fuck_ did that come out wavering and wobbly. “For my best friend Eddie. They didn’t tell me. Knew I’d take it bad.”

Adrian raised a brow. “How come?”

Richie lifted his head. “Because I’m… I’m in fucking love with him.”

And that was too far. He was crying again. Into his coffee. In front of a 26 year old barista who didn’t get paid enough to deal with his bullshit. This was what his life had come to.

To Adrian’s credit, he didn’t keep him waiting long. “So… you’re…?” Richie let out a weak laugh and, in a moment of madness, took off his glasses. Adrian’s face softened. “Oh, doll…”

Richie pointed at himself, this useless wreck of a 40 year old man, and smiled grimly. “Open season right here, Ade. Open fucking season.”

Adrian’s eyes followed the tear tracks, his shaking hands and the uplift of his mouth into a fake, watery smile. He took off his apron. “Okay, I think it’s time to take my break.”

Adrian made Richie a new drink, a mocha with extra chocolate sprinkles. He made himself a latte of some kind with a syrup and vaulted over the counter when his bored and clearly hungover co-worker took over. He steered him to a table, away from the other patrons, and slid into a seat. “Okay, talk to me. And if you were hate-crimed I have contacts that can and will ruin lives.”

“No hate crimes here.” But then Richie hesitated, the familiar shields coming up battered and bruised. “Why do you think I wanna talk? You could sell my story to CNN, kid.”

“Because you’re here, and you started it.” Adrian nudged his mocha towards him. “And I won’t sell the story to anyone because I’m a queer rights activist with an axe to grind and my face in the local precincts as a public nuisance. You really think anyone would take my word over yours?” He smiled.

Richie let himself smile too, and this one felt real. “All excellent points, touché young padawan.”

So he talked. He told Adrian about being closeted in the industry, how the lie ate him up like some sort of parasite until he couldn’t take it anymore. He explained his obsession with going after men he couldn’t have. He talked about Eddie – just a little. He didn’t give sordid details, since that was _his_ to agonise over, but he did admit the feelings hadn’t just appeared out of thin air. “I think I always knew, just couldn’t put a name to it. Or I was afraid to,” he explained, stirring his mocha. “But it was different. Painful, but also… I dunno. Great.”

Adrian was a good listener. He let Richie talk, let him ramble around a subject until he was comfortable enough to approach it head on. He asked good questions. He laughed when Richie dropped a joke to relieve the tension. When he finally trailed off, when he told him about the note he left and nearly broke his mug with how hard he gripped it, Adrian leant back in his seat with a thoughtful hum. “Sounds like you got a lot of issues,” he concluded.

Richie laughed weakly, drying his eyes on a napkin Adrian handed him. “You charge for this therapy?”

“No, I just like gossip.”

Richie smiled. Then- “Did you know? Before I told you.”

Adrian shuffled awkwardly in his seat. “I had my suspicions. At first I thought it was just a bit, and maybe it was, but you were always comfortable around me. Men your age don’t tend to like people like me, as a general rule. Besides, you do have a habit of straightening up when someone gets nearer.”

“Ah. Literally or figuratively?”

“Both.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Adrian smiled, a little consciously. “Wouldn’t panic, sugar. Like I said before, you’re blending in very well.”

Ugh. He wasn’t sure whether that was meant to make him feel better, but he felt fucking awful.

“So you left a note,” Adrian said, recounting the events, “and you ran away. Now what?”

Richie let out a broken sigh. Huh. Now what, indeed. The future seemed to stretch in front of him, bleak and empty. “I guess I get over him,” he suggested, taking a gulp of cooling mocha. “Stop… crying in my apartment and eating junk food by the bucket load.”

“Good attempt,” Adrian said, “but have you thought about speaking to him? Eddie?”

Richie froze up. “I can’t do that.” There was no way. He wasn’t strong enough. It had been days. If he called – if Eddie picked up – he knew he would get right back on the plane. “He… he doesn’t need me messing with his head anymore than I already have. Because that’s what I do, Ade. I fuck everything up.” He sank onto the table, pressing his head into the varnished wood. “Fuck, listen to me spilling my guts to a kid who’s old enough to be my son. You’re my fucking barista.”

“Steady on now, hon. We’re in the same club, we stick together.” He felt a pair of cool, soft hands clutch his own, squeeze them tight. “And for the record, I don’t think you messed with his head. I think you should talk to him, but I can’t make you do anything. I also don’t think you have a bad bone in your body.”

“Pssssh,” Richie snorted. “Tell that to the wives whose husbands I’ve fucked.”

Adrian’s hands squeezed again. “Being scared or making bad decisions doesn’t make you a bad person. And you love him.”

Richie choked on that. Drawing his hands away, he lifted his head up. Adrian didn’t look like he was joking. He’d said it, sure, but this kid just believed him? People threw around words like ‘love’ all the time, but Richie was very good at fielding those from his end. He never let any land, any _stick,_ because he had no idea what would happen if they did. But Adrian believed him because he saw it. He saw what love did to him. It was gnarled and nasty, but he saw it.

“That’s not enough,” Richie said. “Never has been. C’mon, Ade, Eddie and me? We’re not… not kids. We don’t get to make out on the bonnets of Cadillacs or confess in the pouring rain or send each other mix tapes. We missed that bus. We got responsibilities. He doesn’t love me.”

Adrian frowned at him, and it struck Richie that when his brows drew together they were eerily similar to Eddie’s. “It’s never too late for that,” he said. “And have you ever considered the idea that you not being able to imagine Eddie loving you doesn’t mean he doesn’t?”

Richie sighed. “Maybe you’ll get it when you’re older.”

“Alright, Grandpa.”

Richie threw his tear-stained napkin at him, and though he swore Adrian’s disgusted squeal was a little too ham to be real, he appreciated the way it made him laugh. Adrian demanded they swap numbers, and Richie left with another free mocha and feeling a little less alone.

* * *

_One week later._

It felt like the blood was stopping. The wound was nowhere near close to being healed, but it was trying to knit him back together. Richie had gone out to a show with Adrian (correction: he’d been peer pressured to get out of the house before he spiralled for the second time) and finally met Don for longer than a few minutes. He was painfully normal, and when Adrian flung an arm around him and proclaimed him the best thing that ever happened to him, he squirmed under the praise. He was suspicious of Richie at first, eyeing him up and down to decipher the threat. Richie got it a beat too late. “Oh, I’m Richie. Your boyfriend took pity on me because I came out to him at work and then cried for half an hour? Trust me, once someone sees me cry they’re put off for life.”

Don raised a brow, but Adrian came to the rescue. “He’s just a baby gay, honey.”

“I’m sorry, I’m a what?” Richie asked as Adrian tittered.

It apparently meant something to Don, since he nodded in understanding. “Ah, _this_ guy. Well, guess you got some catching up to do.” He smiled. “Although I wouldn’t have said no if you were asking.”

Reducing Richie to an awkwardly blathering mess turned out to be something Don enjoyed. Thankfully they didn’t drag him to every gay bar in LA he’d already covertly visited like he thought they would. Instead they took him to some one-act their friend was putting on. It wasn’t terrible, and he could stomach the beer. That was good enough for him. It was a brave attempt at distraction from the home movie stuck in his mind’s projector.

It was an almost impossible task, though. It delighted in replaying the night on the porch, over and over, just to torture him. It hadn’t been the same as the sex; every touch and breath remained for that, burning, on his skin. But he’d been too lost in it, too scared that it would be over too soon. But the dancing? The dancing felt endless.

The shy touches, the laughter, the fucking _happiness_ that radiated off the two of them as they twisted and turned around one another wasn’t something Richie could forget in a hurry. He had known, even before Eddie had tried to kiss him, that they were going too far, drawing too close. But he let it happen. He let himself fall, the way he always did, without noticing the sharp rocks at the bottom.

He knew Adrian saw it in him. He leaned over and grabbed his hand once, the gaudy rings on his fingers glinting in the low lights, but Richie slipped his hand away with an apologetic smile. Touch still felt wrong. He only wanted one hand reaching out for him like that, and it was back in New York by then. Probably holding Myra’s hand instead. The way it should be.

Adrian and Don went back to his after the one-act, and they were deciding what film to watch out of his extensive collection (“who even buys DVDs anymore?”, “shut up you millennial hacks”, “you’re a millennial”, “shut up Donald”) when he got another message through from Beverly.

[Queen of My Life, Sent: 23:20]  
- _Are you ready for a call yet?  
-I’m not mad_ _I just wanna know you’re okay._

Richie bit his lip. Little did she fucking know. He fired off a ‘ _later’_ as he took his seat on the couch. Okay. He could talk to Beverly. He could handle that.

Once the film finished, he demanded Adrian and Don crash for the night because the trains had stopped running at midnight and the buses were bad news so late and apparently he’d adopted them now. Don was grateful. Adrian called him ‘babydaddy’.

“Oh, I hate _that_.”

“It’s Adrian’s specialty. Making everyone uncomfortable in a five-mile radius.”

Richie threw some blankets in their general direction and shut the door to his bedroom before he called Beverly. “Hey, stranger,” he said once the line connected. His voice broke like a nervous teenager.

“ _Richie_ ,” she breathed. Richie was struck by how meek she sounded. Relief, he realised. She was relieved. “Oh god, thanks for calling.”

Richie sighed. “S’fine, sorry it’s so late.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” she said hurriedly. Like she was afraid he’d hang up the phone. God, this was what he made his friends like. Fuck. “H-how are you?”

“Oh, me?” C’mon Trashmouth. Time for the mask. You can do it. “I’m stellar, my angel. Got my barista and his boyfriend on my pull-out couch, just watched Keanu Reeves fucking shit up in a suit after watching some artsy one-act play with minimal props. So, y’know. Living the dream.”

It didn’t work. “Sweetie,” Beverly sighed.

Oh no. Not _sweetie._ “What do you want me to say, Bev? Huh?” he demanded, his defences rising up in spikes despite the breaks. “Do you want to hear how I feel like my heart is being ripped out constantly? Or how about the way I can’t seem to function without thinking about his dumb fucking face?” Beverly tried to interrupt, but Richie ploughed on. “Maybe you want to know how many times I’ve ended up a sobbing mess on my floor, or how I can still remember what his fucking shampoo smells like because I’m a weak bitch? Huh? Which one you want?”

The phone went silent. Richie was pacing, blinking back more stinging tears. God, he thought he was past the crying stage. Clearly fucking not. Then: “So. Going well, I see.”

Richie snorted out a tearful laugh in surprise. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.” It was said softly, fondly, and Richie wanted the anger. He couldn’t fight sympathy. “I think, what you did… it was very noble.”

He closed his eyes. “He showed you the note.” Of course he had. So everyone knew about his fuck-up. Great. He guessed he deserved that one. He had to learn from his mistakes, even if he exposed his friends to them too.

“I picked it up when he ran out the door after you.”

Wow, that winded him. What would have happened if he hadn’t been fast enough? _Simple_ , he answered himself. _You wouldn’t have left. You’d have fucked things even more._

“Yeah, well. Guess I grew a conscience.”

“It’s also the stupidest and un-Richie thing you’ve ever done,” was her blunt reply.

He winced. Was it really? He was pretty good at avoiding things. He ran at every chance he got. Calling this stunt he’d pulled ‘noble’ was just slapping a label on something that was peak Richie Tozier to hide it.

No. This was selfless. This was for Eddie, it wasn’t about him.

“Bev, please. He doesn’t… he _can’t_ want me. He just panicked because he’s getting m-married and he’s overwhelmed and I blundered in like ‘hey Eddie, I’m gay and desperate and I’ve loved you for years, how ‘bout it’ and he figured he might as fucking well…”

“Richie, Richie, slow down.” Richie could hear the muffled click of her heels as she paced the length of her living room too. She wasn’t wearing trainers anymore; this was New York Beverly he was talking to now. They were back to a reality he’d hoped never had to happen. “I really don’t think it was like that.”

Yeah, well. She hadn’t seen Eddie’s face. “I saw an opportunity and I took it,” he said, sinking down on his bed. “It’s not Eddie’s fault, I… I’m just the pathetic sap who tried to get something he shouldn’t.”

“Okay, you need to shut up right now,” Beverly snapped. Richie shut up. “I get you’re beating yourself up right now, but I’m not listening to you put yourself down for hours when I can’t come over and hug you.”

He let himself fall back on his bed, the springs creaking in protest. “You listen to my stand-up routines. That’s 99% home grown self-deprecation.”

“Because you’re not in pain when you do your stand-up. I don’t feel sorry for Trashmouth. I feel sorry for _you_ , the kid who learnt the Lindyhop for me just to shut up a couple bullies, and the man who punched my abusive ex-husband in the face, even though he knew he was going to get the shit kicked out of him.”

Richie sniffled. “I’m not-”

“You’re a good person,” Beverly urged. “In fact, you’re such a good person you decided to stop fighting for something you always wanted. Even if I think that’s a stupid decision.”

“Bev, please, I’ll cry.”

“Good!” She laughed, but he could tell she was fighting to control her tears too. “It’ll make such a change from normal.”

“Ugh, fuck offfff.” Beverly’s weepy chuckle matched his own, and they lapsed into a quiet punctuated by a couple of heavy sniffs.

Bev spoke first. “Love you, you big idiot.”

Richie sighed. “Love you too.”

Someone rapped smartly on his door, nearly frightening the life out of him. “Well done, sugar! Knew you had it in you!”

Adrian. Richie bolted upright, shifting his phone to his chest. “Don’t listen at doors, who fucking raised you?!”

“He loves you baaaaack!”

“It’s not him you child, go to fucking bed!”

“Gonna tuck me in, babydaddy?”

“SHUT UP AND SLEEP YOU GREMLIN YOU ARE NEVER COMING TO MY APARTMENT AGAIN.”

When he put the phone back to his ear, Beverly asked, “Who is that?!”

He frowned. “My barista. I did say.”

“I thought that was a joke. Oh my god, he’s really there with his boyfriend?”

“Yep. They’re my gay pals now. I look like their sugardaddy when we’re out. Or their fucking dad. Told you, my life is in shambles.”

Beverly sighed. A noise down the phone sounded like she was blowing her nose. When she was done, she said, “You’re not the only one.”

Richie sat up a little straighter with a jolt. He’d wanted to ask, even though he knew it was better if he didn’t. He didn’t want to imagine Eddie agonising over him. He would have preferred it if Eddie hated him. Hatred was easy to move on from and didn’t carry the same sort of baggage. He _really_ didn’t need to hear it – but some traitorous part of him asked, “How is he, Bev?”

She didn’t answer straightaway. He wondered if she was conferring with Ben, silently arguing over what precisely to say. He waited, that blackened guilt collecting in his lungs like tar. When Beverly finally spoke, it was careful and recited. “Will any answer to that make you feel less shit?”

Richie hesitated. “Not really, no,” he admitted.

“Then I’m not telling you.” Beverly was more even now, more contained. “We’ll talk about other stuff until you’re ready to hear what an idiot you are.”

“Great.”

So they talked. They somehow managed to find things to talk about despite being around each other for three whole days. Beverly was good at that; she and Richie had always been able to kill time together. They didn’t mention Eddie again, and Richie was grateful. If they had, he would have begged her to tell him what exactly would make him feel so bad.

* * *

_Two weeks later._

It was 3am, and he couldn’t sleep. He and 3am had become intimate friends by now; no matter when he turned in and pulled the covers over his head, blocking out the rest of the world, he would open his eyes, sleep-drunk and hazy, and see that fucking number mocking him on his phone screen.

This particular 3am was worse, since he’d only stumbled home two hours before. Steve had got him a gig, a pretty good one, and it had gone down pretty fucking well too. Adrian and Don tagged along like his gay groupies, laughing and heckling with the best of them. He used new material, stark with the ghosts he was trying to exorcise. He hoped that bringing them up under a spotlight would do the job. He made jokes about break ups ( _it wasn’t a break up, definitely not, they were never together, fucking idiot_ ), about the stupid shit you did when everything you looked at reminded you of him – or whoever. Whoever.

“See, you start off thinking you won’t be sat in the shower holding a shampoo bottle like you’re trying to breastfeed it because That Person might have touched it once,” Richie said, cupping the imaginary bottle to his chest, “but believe me, buddy, it’ll happen.” A few understanding titters. “And before you know it, you’re waking up from a trance having drafted a 3000 word email – a fucking _email_ – to CocoNutty Clean Company demanding they pull all shampoo from their shelves because it smells like your ex.” The laughter came, and fuelled him. He laughed himself, igniting the little fire in him. “And that story offends me more than anyone because I haven’t sent an email since TWO THOUSAND TEN.” He leant in close to the mic, shouting the words out to the baying crowd. “I broke my streak, can you believe it? Devastating. I’m regressing.”

Don yelled out, “Did you send it?”

“Of c- of course I didn’t fucking send it!” Richie beamed. “If I had would I tell you that the CocoNutty Clean Company is an establishment built on family values and they do not tolerate harsh language in emails?” He waggled his eyebrows and that was it. Audience was putty in his hands.

He stayed out late, he drank, he stuck around Adrian and Don until they went home. “Good show tonight,” Adrian said, reeling him into a tight hug before he left. Ade was a hugger, something Richie had found out very quickly. “Maybe talking about this stuff _is_ helpful, who’d have thought?”

“Unorthodox method,” Don agreed, “but you look better. You feel better?”

Richie had thought so. Well. 3am would beg to fucking differ on that one.

He rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling. He traced a path from his neck to his collarbone, swallowing painfully as the phantoms seemed to wake up under his touch. Eddie’s lips. His body, covering him. The broken little sounds he made when Richie kissed him, like he was taking him apart.

He grabbed his pillow and smothered himself with it, almost screaming. This wasn’t fucking fair. He didn’t deserve to have this in his head, he didn’t want to remember. But his body was craving, like he was coming off Eddie cold turkey. It had been one night, one fucking night.

 _But years of wanting_. _Years of wanting to know what Eddie’s moans sounded like, heavy in your mouth. The taste of him, the smell, the sight, the everything._

He threw his pillow aside and saw that, to his horror, he was tenting his boxers. “Ugh, you fucking asshole,” he swore. There was no way he was going to get off to the memory of Eddie touching him. No fucking way. He was not that level of pathetic – it had already happened twice that week, three times would be a habit. See. He was learning.

 _You’re lonely,_ he thought as he glowered sulkily at nothing in particular to will his erection away, _that’s what this is. You’re so fucking lonely, and you’re scared of bringing anyone into your space in case they walk right back out when they see what they’re dealing with._

The realisation opened a yawning chasm, one he couldn’t ever hope to cross. He debated on calling Beverly, just to show he wasn’t as alone as he thought he was – but the time. It was way too late, even for her. He knew she would take a call from him no matter what, but he wasn’t going to put his late night whining on her. She had her own life; she didn’t need to bolster up his.

An idea came to him then, so stupid and twisted he almost pushed it away. But then he was reaching for his phone, tapping in the number.

He waited for the rings, his stomach churning. He knew how many to wait for. He knew no one would answer. Then something clicked, the tone replaced by the cool, calm robotic voice repeating the number back to him. Richie didn’t need to listen. He knew. When the line finally beeped to indicate he could start a message, he took a breath.

“Hey Eds. Remember what I said, about using this as my own therapist? Guess I never learn. Shit, this is fucked up, talking to your old answerphone when I know you have a new phone. I saw it. Never did give me _that_ number but that’s for the best.” He washed a hand over his face and sat up, coiling his duvet around him like a robe.

“What I want to say is that I’m fine. I’m not a mess anymore, but I’m not sure when I’ll be great. I’m just… fine, and that’ll have to do. If I say that enough, I’ll actually start believing it.” He bit his lip. “I don’t… I shouldn’t have been a mess, I know, but I am. I wonder if Humphrey Bogart went back to his bar in Casablanca and cried for five days straight when he told Ingrid Bergman to get on the plane? Probably not. He’s a man. Don’t think I’m one of those. Don’t think I’m much of anything.”

He sighed. “I guess it’s because you’re fucking _everywhere_ , Eddie, I’m sorry. I see you all over, it’s like you’re haunting me and I… I still feel you. Touching, running your hands over me, looking at me like you want to get into my fucking head. Well, congrats man, you succeeded. You’re here, in my head, and you’re not leaving.” He paused. “Is it bad that I hope you never do?”

He let the silence, the time stamp ticking on, answer it for him.

“It’s selfish, but I want that bit of you. I might not have the rest, but I can have that. Just wish it was enough.” He ran a hand through his hair, imagining Eddie’s fingers there instead. “Part of me wishes it would stop, though. This… this fucking pain in my chest. When you’re… when you’re married or you’ve moved on it’ll go. It has to. A guy can hope, right?” He smiled weakly, at nothing. It hurt, but he didn’t cry. This was just scar tissue now; itching, painful scar tissue, that might never stop itching and hurting.

“Anywho. Enough confessions for one 3am. Time to be a fucking man, right? So yes, Eddie, I’m fine, and so are you. We have to be. Got it?”

He hung up. He decided to make one of those ‘time to be a fucking man’ decisions right there and then. He scrolled through endless sites until he found exactly what he was looking for.

‘Dislikes other pets, children, ex-stray’.

He hit ‘reserve’ and stared back at the angriest looking cat he’d ever seen.

* * *

_3 weeks later_

“Hey Rich, I need to -woah, that cat is hideous.”

“His name is Dandelion, Bill, and he can hear you.”

“Okay, well Dandelion looks like he’s plotting your murder.”

Richie glanced above him where his new roommate was lounging across the top of his couch, scowling at Bill’s face on the other end of the phone. ‘Dandelion’ had turned out to be a colossus of a cat, a scruffy ginger mix the size of a large terrier that the shelter couldn’t wait to get rid of. He also responded well to ‘asshole’, ‘fucker’ and ‘little shit’, and had managed to terrorise the neighbour’s dog, destroy the blinds and scratch Adrian in the course of a few days. Richie already adored him, even though he was convinced he was part bobcat. He focused back on Bill. “I’m sure it’ll be a calm and merciful death.”

“Yeah, keep believing that.”

Richie relaxed back into the couch, mindful of Dandelion’s bottlebrush tail. “Shun the non-believer, Big Bill. Me and Dandy have it covered. It’s like a death pact. He goes first, I give him a Viking funeral. I go first, he’s allowed to eat me.” At that exact moment, Dandelion chose to whip his tail out, dislodging Richie’s glasses. “Ow, you bastard!” Dandelion glowered serenely at him from his perch. Everyone in the room - Richie, Bill and Dandelion - knew it was no joke. Dandelion _would_ eat Richie. The pact was sealed.

“Charming. This is irrelevant, can we actually talk now?”

Richie had gigged three nights in a row, since Steve was working around the clock to keep him busy. Keeping busy meant missing Eddie a hell of a lot less, and stopping risked everything coming back. It still hurt. Obviously. Bill had wanted to catch up all week, and now he finally had the time Richie wasn’t sure he wanted to. Bill had been adamant that they speak that day, no matter what, and that set off all sorts of alarms in his head. But now he figured he could be okay. So long as Bill didn’t-

“Rich, I got this in the mail.” He brandished a gilded card at the screen, and Richie went rigid.

_We cordially invite you to the wedding of Edward Kaspbrak and Myra Kaminski._

Richie felt it hit like one of Tom Rogan’s punches. He remembered the bright explosion of pain when he was hit, the dull ache that came later, and at that moment he felt like calling Mr Rogan up and suggesting a second round.

“Oh. G-good for him,” he said. Fuck, he always knew it would happen, even if that secret part of him hoped it wouldn’t. He’d imagined Eddie turning up on his door a thousand times over, bags in hand as he told him he wanted _him,_ no one else. But Richie had been clear. And, it seemed, so was Eddie. There it was, in black and white. He saw the date was soon, next week, and that pain slammed into him yet again. “He’s… leaving time short to send you invites.”

“Th-that’s all you have t-to suh-say?!” Bill threw the invitation aside. He was stammering. This was bad. Bill didn’t stammer unless he was about to burst into tears or incite a revolution. “What the actual fuh-fuck Richie?!”

But Richie didn’t have enough fight in him; not anymore. He’d been crying and aching and hurting over it for too fucking long, and now he was just tired. “What else can I say?” he said, staring into the screen. “I can’t do anything. What do you expect me to do, Billy? Huh?”

 _Please, Bill,_ he wanted to say, _don’t do this to me. Don’t make me open up these scars, the same way I do at night when no one’s around to distract me._

“H-he’s not huh-happy! You knuh-know he isn’t!”

“You don’t know shit about him, and apparently neither do I,” Richie replied with bite. He scooted to the other end of the couch to avoid a disgruntled Dandelion. “Eddie isn’t some little kid we have to look after, Bill. He can make his own decisions.”

“Oh my guh-god, you fuh-fucking idiot.” Richie blinked. This Bill on the screen was angrier than he’d seen him in a while. Bill’s anger was a quiet kind, a steel grenade ready to explode if poked too hard. “You don’t fuh-fuh-FUCKING get it!” He shouted, sending Richie shrinking back into his couch. “He’s duh-doing this because YOU told him to!”

Richie’s resolve hardened. “Hey, fuck you man, I didn’t tell him to marry her!”

“Y-you as good as did!” Bill had propped his phone somewhere so his hands were free to get as angry as the rest of him. “You told him she was the ruh-right choice! That he shouldn’t p-pick you!”

“Like he would ever pick me in the first place,” Richie said poisonously. It hurt, pulled at the scars, but he kept going. _Look at me, Big Bill. Look at me and tell me he’d pick me over some perfect life in New York. You can’t, because it’s not true. It can’t be true. Because that’s just as scary as him rejecting me._ “Look, it’s not my fucking problem. I can’t do shit.”

“Yes you can!” Bill argued back. His hackles were up. Richie bristled. “You can grow some buh-balls and tell him the truth!”

“So, what is the truth?” Richie snapped, shooting out of his seat so fast it startled Dandelion. “Huh? If you know me _so_ well, Billy, why don’t _you_ tell _me_?”

“Oh no, do not put this b-back on me, Ruh-Richie. Don’t you dare,” Bill hissed. “I’m not fighting your buh-battles for you, we’re not kids anymore. This is on you.”

“I…” Richie faltered. He was entering dangerous territory, and the panic was beginning to creep up his throat like bile. “I can’t tell him, you… you don’t get it-”

“What’s stuh-stopping you?” Bill demanded. “Go on, what the fuh- _fuck_ is stopping you right now from calling him and telling him you-”

“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO HURT ANYMORE,” Richie bellowed hoarsely. The scar tissue tore open. “BECAUSE I AM SICK OF CHASING AFTER THINGS I CAN’T HAVE EVEN IF I WANT THEM SO BAD IT FEELS LIKE I’LL DIE IF I DON’T.” He crumpled, he broke, he bled. “I DON’T _WANT_ TO WANT HIM ANYMORE, BILL. I HAVE LOVED HIM SINCE I WAS THIRTEEN _FUCKING_ YEARS OLD AND HE WON’T CHOOSE ME THE WAY I’D CHOOSE HIM.”

He was crying now, tears rolling down his face in shock at what he’d just admitted.

Bill stayed quiet as he continued, more subdued, “He has someone who fits. Someone who loves him properly. And I’m not taking that away from him.”

Bill shook his head. “Coward,” he spat. “You fuh-fucking c-c-coward.”

Richie flinched. Yeah. Yeah, he was. But a little part of him, small and angry, rose up in defiance. No. Actually, he wasn’t. He did this for Eddie. He did this because he had to be the strong one, he had to walk away before Eddie did something he regretted. It hurt him, and it ruined him, but he’d done it anyway. He levelled his gaze at the screen and glowered at Bill. “No, I’m not.”

The glint in Bill’s eyes made him realise this was exactly what he’d wanted. “Then prove it, Trashmouth.”

“How?”

A notification pinged merrily on his phone. Frowning, Richie opened it up. It was forwarded from an airline. The subject title was ‘ _Your flight confirmation to NY JFK’._ He stared stupidly at it until Bill cleared his throat.

“Fight for it.”

Richie looked back to Bill. He looked just a little bit smug about it. “What the fuck Bill, I’m not gonn-”

“It’s there. Think it over.”

Richie sighed. Oh, boy. “Since when were you a homewrecker, Mr Denbrough?”

Bill looked more sober than ever. “I have eyes, Richie.”

When they finished the chat, Richie opened up the email again. The ticket was for the day before the wedding. He sighed. Not much time to decide. But with Bill’s face vanishing from his screen and Dandelion beginning to meow for food, the strength fell away. Back to the bottom, where doubt could feed on it.

He had a week, he justified. He could delete the email, wait it out, then message Bill to say he wasn’t going. That Eddie had his own fucking life. That was doable.

* * *

_4 weeks later._

Richie hadn’t deleted the email. The plane ticket just sat there in his inbox, almost taunting him. _Dare you to go. Dare you to be brave for yourself for once. Dare you to let the whole fucking world see you._

He didn’t mention it to anyone else; he figured if Bill wanted it common knowledge, he would’ve told the others anyway. Besides, he needed to figure the shit out on his own. He kept it in his head, the invite and the ticket and Bill, fucking Bill, telling him to fight, telling him he had eyes. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? He was obviously head over heels for Eddie, fucking great. That was meant to make him feel better how? He realised, after spending the day in the coffee shop with Adrian, that Bill wasn’t trying to make him feel better. He was trying to get him to New York. And, well, Richie wasn’t sure he wanted to be there.

Was he going to go to the wedding as Bill’s plus one and sit in the pews, crying for all the wrong reasons whilst Eddie and Myra flaunted how much they loved each other in front of everyone? There was no fucking way. Beverly was right, back at the lakehouse; weddings were just big gloating parties. Richie wasn’t sure he’d be able to take this particular gloating party.

So he ignored it. He worked. He built something of a repertoire with Dandelion, despite the cat not really caring if Richie was in the apartment or not so long as he got fed. He pushed it to the back of his mind, smothering it there along with everything that happened at that goddamn lakehouse, and he felt – not better, exactly, but he could function. He could live without thinking about it every five minutes. That was, until something arrived in the mail the day his plane ticket was dated.

It came in a padded envelope, with his address typed out on a label. Richie picked it up first thing in the morning, half asleep, and dumped it on his kitchen table as he set about making breakfast. Dandelion burst out from his hiding place with a yowl that made Richie jump. “Alright, alright, breakfast time for Dandy too!” he said, and the cat grumpily rubbed himself up against Richie’s legs. He was warming to him. Richie appreciated that.

He didn’t give the package a second glance until he’d opened a tin of tuna for Dandelion, got himself a coffee and some cereal, and sat back down at the table. When he looked it over again, the cereal spoon didn’t reach his mouth. The return address. It was a Brooklyn address. Eddie worked in Brooklyn.

Richie dropped his spoon back into his bowl, and ripped the package open with trembling hands. What came out made him frown: an out of date phone with a sticky note attached and a letter. “What the fuck?” he whispered, picking up the phone first. The sticky note held one word, printed in Eddie’s painfully neat handwriting. _Voicemail._

Richie stared down at it. No. No, it couldn’t be. He turned the phone on, called its voicemail and waited. Sure enough, he heard his own voice bouncing back at him.

_“Heyyy Eddie! Looks like I missed you man, no worries. Too busy balls-deep in risk analysing I’m sure, god your job is so boring, can you even get it up? Anyway, just a super important dog I met that you’ll regret never hearing about first-hand, I’ll send you a pic. Byeeeeee.”_

That was dated months ago. Heart racing, he skipped a few other messages – there were a lot of them – until he recognised a timestamp. Early June. 5AM. He hit play.

“ _Hey, it’s uh… me again. It’s been two weeks since my last confession-”_

Richie nearly flung the phone across the room. Jesus fucking Christ. Eddie had the phone. Eddie had the phone and he’d listened to his messages, all of those fucking desperate, pleading voicemails. And he’d kept them? Like a psychopath?

Before he could put it off any longer, Richie snatched for the letter, his heart in his throat and threatening to spill out onto the paper in front of him.

‘ _Richie,_

_There’s 34 messages on the voicemail. Most are from you, when I wasn’t answering your calls. Some are from after. Some are recent. I never deleted them, because I missed you too much to remove you from my life entirely. I played them when I was having a hard day, when I needed to hear your voice. For some reason your stupid, dumb bleating makes me feel like I can do anything._

_If this doesn’t show you how much I care about you, then I don’t know what will. I didn’t say it at the lakehouse, and I’m sorry. I was scared and overwhelmed that something was happening that I actually wanted for a change. I thought I was obvious. I thought you’d know. Guess I was wrong._

_You can say what you like, or write it in a note before you try to do what you think is the right thing. But don’t fucking tell me that I don’t love you._

_And don’t fucking lie._

_Eddie.’_

Richie dropped the letter down next to the phone, his heart racing. Eddie loved him. Holy shit, he loved him. He’d loved him that night, and he’d loved him when they were in Derry, and he loved him on the porch. He wasn’t sure how long the love lasted, how far it stretched, but it was good enough for him. Warmth bloomed, low and hopeful, in his chest. It was a nice change from the crushing weight of guilt.

But… but what did that fucking mean? Eddie was still marrying Myra. He might love the both of them, and Richie wasn’t sure he could take that. Or it could be some line, the same sort of line the other men would weave him. “Why wouldn’t I love you? You’re a good fuck and you don’t nag me about chores”, was one of the killers.

The warmth eclipsed his doubts though, made them irrelevant. Because Richie knew Eddie. He knew that Eddie worked with probabilities, assessed the potential of problems if things were done haphazardly or without true planning. Eddie would have planned this. He would have thought about it. He would have _agonised_ over it.

His own phone ringing jarred him out of his epiphany. When he fished it out, he was surprised to see it was Stan calling him. He answered. “H-hello? Stan?”

“Oh thank god, you picked up.” Stan didn’t sound like himself. He sounded hurried. Harrassed. “Are you on your way to the airport?”

“N-no,” Richie said, sounding like an asshole. “I wasn’t going to-”

“Okay, so you need to listen to me right now,” Stan cut in, his voice urgent. “You need to get on that fucking plane.”

“Wh-”

“I talked to Eddie. No one’s been able to speak to him since he went back to New York, his phone just cuts out every time they try.” Stan sighed. “Something’s wrong, Rich. Bill told me he showed you the invite.”

“Yeah, he did, but why-”

“Did he tell you how it came?”

Richie frowned. “No?”

“It came in a blank letter from his work address. It said ‘private and confidential’ on it. It looked like a bill.”

“I don’t-”

“I called his work and pretended to be a doctor so I’d be put through to him.”

A chill went down Richie’s spine. That was the trick they’d used to speak to Beverly when she was living with Tom, and Stan knew it. He was alert now. Ready. “Wh-what did he say, Stan?” he said, getting out of his chair and heading straight for his room. “Is he okay?”

“He didn’t want to cut you off, Rich,” Stan said, still talking fast as though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get it all out in time. “He didn’t want to stop talking to you, you hadn’t done anything wrong.” He sucked in a breath like it was winding him to talk about it. “He said that Myra told him to do it. She didn’t _ask_ , Richie. She told him.”

Richie froze for a fraction of a second – everything he’d thought, everything he’d assumed, it wasn’t true, he hadn’t fucked up, he was okay, Eddie wanted him – and then he burst into action. Dragging a backpack out from his closet, he jammed the phone to his ear. “Stan, did the others get invitations to the wedding?”

“Yeah. We’re all in New York right now: Patty and I got a hotel in Queens, Bill and Mike are here too.”

“Okay, can you do me a favour? Hire me a car. A fast one.” He started shoving clothes into the backpack frantically, his mind whirling. “A-and don’t worry how much it is, I’ll pay you back.”

“Sure.” He could hear the frown in Stan’s face. “What are you doing, Rich?”

“What I should’ve done a fucking eon ago, Stan the Man.” Richie caught sight of something on his bedside table. The frayed green pipecleaner, the dull orange stone. He picked up the Ring of Power Eddie had given him forever ago, twisting it around in his hand. He clenched his jaw and stuck it on his finger.

“But first, I’m getting on that _fucking_ plane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like you all to know the soundtrack to this is Gavin DeGraw's Not Over You on repeat for hours on end, mixed in with Stop Crying Your Heart Out by Oasis and Cher's You Wouldn't Know Love. I am a simple soul and it makes little sense for the plot but that was just what I needed to get into the achey sad mood.
> 
> The stand-up Richie references in the opening of this chapter is something pinched from a Russell Brand tour from 2010 that weirdly has stuck with me for ten whole years: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1mlqxxW82k.  
> The other stand-up is Richie's (my) original and feeble attempt at being funny. At least the imaginary audience loved it. 
> 
> Also need to thank Alice yet again for this chapter because I mentioned I was giving Richie a cat and she delighted in telling me how to make Dandelion an absolute asshole so thank you for that!


	14. The Losers have a wedding to get to pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it's come to this.   
> This chapter is segmented between various points of view - we have Eddie, Richie and the Losers (though mainly Beverly) in here, and we have all the events leading up to a pretty unforgettable wedding. Including: airport shenanigans, childhood throwbacks, Patty (!) and everyone wanting to low-key murder Richie at some point. It's a stress dream, but it's my stress dream. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf to yell at me and kudos & comment if you can, it's very much appreciated! :)

Eddie was alone the night before his wedding; it was probably going to be the last time in a long while.

Myra had organised to get ready with her bridesmaids in one of their houses, since it was, “bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, Eddiekins, you know that!” so… there he was. On his own. His watch beeped to signify it was midnight – the day of his wedding had actually come – but he knew deep down he had no chance of sleeping. The nervous energy crackling under his clothes like static would make short work of that.

Instead he sat by the window, watching the rain that pelted down and sent droplets chasing one another down the pane, wriggling like tadpoles. He was drinking a second cup of coffee that night, even though he knew it was a bad idea (“no caffeine after 6pm, you know how you get with caffeine Eddie”) and asking himself how the fuck he’d ended up there.

He had been so determined to end things, to tell Myra it was a bad idea for both of them and they should just cut it off before shit got complicated. Even after Richie’s note, his vanishing act and the pain it caused, Eddie still headed back to New York with the whole discussion typed out in his head. It didn’t just have to be about _Richie_ : it could be about himself.

The conclusion Eddie had reached, as he formulated the conversation in his head, was that he was gay. He knew it. He’d always known, just… never listened. Admitting it sent a thrill of terror through him, but he could keep that shit to himself. What was important was that he couldn’t marry Myra, because he was gay. That was all he had to say.

When he touched down hours later in the early hours of the morning, there was a significant lack of anything in him. As he stumbled to his car, still a little doped on the Xanax he’d taken earlier, there was no hurt, no anger. He was just… numb. That wasn’t an entirely new experience for Eddie. Numb was how he survived both his mother and New York for so long. But the way he could pinpoint other feelings _somewhere,_ pushed to the back and muffled? That was certainly different. He just couldn’t feel enough to love someone, to marry someone and pretend like he did – and that was what he clung to. He clung tight.

But when he pulled up to his house, sat in his car for ten whole minutes trying to muster up the willpower to open his door and admit he was back, it was over. Myra was waiting for him. As he got his bags out of the trunk and crossed their lawn, she lingered on the doorstep, drawing her dressing gown snugly around her. She smiled. There were no fangs, no flashing eyes. Just Myra. “Eddie, you’re home!” she said softly. “My goodness, I’ve missed you, why didn’t you tell me you were almost here?”

Eddie gazed at her, framed in a yellow light from the hallway behind her, and blinked back tears. She missed him. She really did, he could see it. The grip on his bags grew weaker as his hands trembled.

She stopped smiling. “Eddiekins? What is it, baby?”

Baby. That was what broke Eddie Kaspbrak – a fucking pet name he didn’t even like but didn’t belong in his fiancée’s mouth. He’d broken right there, on their doorstep, like some kid who’d run away from home and had decided it was too cold, too lonely. Myra swept him up in a hug, rubbing his back slowly and telling him it was okay as they shuffled inside to hide from the neighbours. She kept asking if he was sick, if something had happened, but Eddie said nothing. He buried his face in her lilac scented dressing gown and started to lose his grip on those words he’d rehearsed to perfection in the car. Myra was here. She would look after him. She _wanted_ him. And that made someone who did. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Myra loving him was enough.

“Don’t you worry, Eddiebear,” Myra soothed, “You’re home now. Whoever it is can’t get you here.”

The words slipped away from him, struggling against his fingertips, and he let her lead him into their bedroom. He got undressed and got beneath the covers the same way he always did, not looking at her, even though he wasn’t tired. _Myra, I’m gay. Myra, I can’t be with you because I’m gay. I’m in love with someone who doesn’t fucking want me enough, but that someone isn’t you._

Shit, he wasn’t sure he would ever be tired again.

Myra joined him. She leaned over and kissed him. He wanted to break it ( _“I’m gay Myra I’m gay I’m gay I’m not yours)_ but he knew he had to kiss her back. So he did. She took his hand and laid it on her breast. He pulled away. “No,” he whispered to the dark room. “Not tonight.”

Myra didn’t answer, but he could tell she was disappointed. He was an asshole.

She fell asleep and he stayed awake, staring up at the ceiling as he felt for those words and found he’d lost them somewhere between his front door and the bed he was in. But the ache started, deep in his stomach, and he knew he would dream about Richie again. Maybe he’d never stop. And wasn’t that the cruellest thing, now he knew first-hand what it was like?

Eddie shook himself loose of his month-old thoughts and left his spot, setting his empty mug down on the nearest available coaster as he went to the bedroom. He ignored the bed. He instead dragged his suitcase out of the wardrobe and threw it onto the bed, opening it with mug-warmed hands. He pulled out something greying and moth-eaten from one of the inner compartments and shook it out in front of him. His heart tugged feebly in his chest.

The Frankie Say Relax T-shirt.

Richie hadn’t worn it that night; Eddie found it later, squashed between the joins in the couch when they were leaving, and before anyone could notice he’d stuffed it in his luggage. It was weird. He told himself he would mail it back to Richie eventually. Myra had found it a week later and put it in a donations bag when she thought Eddie wasn’t looking. He retrieved it from the bag when he _knew_ she wasn’t looking.

He stared down at it now, fingers creasing in the material. This thing was 20 years old or more, and Richie was ingrained into every particle of it, every loose thread and gaping hole where the cotton had grown old and weak. Eddie bit his lip. He and the T-shirt had that in common. A moment of madness had him unbuttoning his pyjama shirt, folding it neatly to one side and pulling on the T-shirt instead. Richie’s T-shirt.

It hung loose on him, the shoulders drooping down his arms and the hem brushing his thighs, but _fuck_ it felt nice. Richie was tall, he was broad, he was everything Eddie wasn’t – and that was good. He knelt there on the bed, toying idly with the bottom of the shirt and giving himself a solid 8 on the Pathetic Scale. He was not some teenage girl who just moved away to college without her boyfriend, for fuck’s sake. But he brought the collar of the shirt to his nose and inhaled, and _fuck_ it smelt like Richie; the woody spice of his too-cheap aftershave, the deep, animal musk of his sweat. In any other world Eddie would be repulsed – but in the world of the late evening he chased it, closing his eyes and remembering the slow, tentative touches and the taste of Richie’s sweat on his tongue. He scrunched his eyes tight. Fuck this. Fuck all of it.

His phone buzzed beside him on the bed, and he ignored it at first. When it persisted however, he cracked an eye open and saw the caller ID. _Ben_?

He answered. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” He felt bad immediately. Ben would know he was up. He knew him too well to think otherwise.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Ben said anyway, sheepish. “I’d say it was timezones, but…”

“Manhattan isn’t known for its time bubble in comparison to Long Island.” Eddie moved, wincing as his joints complained. Why had he thought sitting like that was a good idea? “Did the others get here okay? They all got the invites?”

“They’re all here. They called from the hotel. Mike’s jetlagged and Stan sounded pretty wired, but Patty’s looking after them all.” Ben laughed. “If anyone has the right to be tired it’s her, but she’s a trooper.”

“A-and they’re still okay for breakfast tomorrow? Before the-” he gulped, “- the ceremony?”

“They’ll be there.” Ben let a sad laugh pass through the line. “Bill’s freaking out about being your best man. I know you threw it at him last-minute but if I have to hear his speech one more time I think I’m going to swap his cue cards out for Richie’s stand up.”

Eddie hated the way he let the silence fall.

“Uh, sorry,” Ben said. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine.” Ugh. This is what he was afraid of. They always said not to get involved with your closest friends, and here he was having done exactly that. Here he was, still _in_ that. “Go on.”

“Uh.” Ben paused then, almost as though he was receiving instructions. From Beverly, obviously. “How… how are you, uh, feeling?”

Eddie considered saying he was fine, but he was sat on his bed, having just drunk coffee when he knew he shouldn’t, wearing Richie’s old shirt – so that was a big fucking lie. “Like shit,” he answered. He could be honest with Ben.

His answering chuckle calmed Eddie’s racing heart. “Nervous, huh?”

Understatement of the fucking century. Every time he so much as glanced at his suit he felt himself go into cardiac arrest. “A little,” he said breathlessly. “B-but is it normal to have, uh, second thoughts? Before a wedding?”

Ben was quiet for a moment. They both knew what sort of thoughts Eddie meant. “Eddie, you know you don’t have to do this,” he began, carefully.

“I’m not doing this out of pity,” Eddie hissed. _Lie._ “I’m doing this because I want to.” _Another lie._ “It’s the right thing to do.” _Jury’s out on that one._ “I just wonder if maybe… maybe it’s too fast.”

“I mean. Bev proposed to me a week after her divorce came through and we got married like, two months later, so we’re the outliers you’re warned about.” Eddie could _hear_ the shrug down the phone. “But I loved her since we were 12, so. You know. Don’t know if that counts.”

“Right, right, I forgot you two are basically the perfect couple.” Eddie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he thought. “Imagine you’re normal, then. Would you worry about shit like that?”

“We’re far from perfect, Eddie,” Ben replied, ever the voice of democracy. “And I’d be more worried about marrying someone I don’t love than whether I was marrying too quickly.”

“Ben. Don’t do this. It’s almost one in the fucking morning and I am marrying Myra today, I can’t deal with this shit.”

“Walk away, then,” Ben urged.

Eddie paled at the very thought. Myra aside, Ben hadn’t met her family. If he bolted and one of the male Kaminskis found him, no one else ever would. He cleared his throat. “Were you just calling to put me off my own wedding, or was there something else?” he asked, changing tactic.

“Partly that.” Ben’s voice shifted awkwardly. “Also wanted to know if you… y’know. Heard back. From your letter.”

A bolt shot through Eddie at that. “Y-you don’t have to talk in code, she hasn’t bugged my fucking phone.”

“Have you?” Ben insisted.

Eddie sighed. “No. It was a stupid idea.”

Mailing out his old phone and a letter to Richie was something he’d done in a fit of sleep deprivation in his office, the sheer frustration that he couldn’t get Richie’s stupid face out of his head finally driving him to action. Ben only knew about the letter – the phone was never going to be mentioned again, if Eddie could help it.

Posting it off however had meant letting go of the last remnant of Richie’s voice he had. As a result, he’d regretted it pretty quick afterwards; if it worked, though, it could bring something better and less pathetic. It reminded him of wanting to collect up cereal tokens to send off for the Decoder Ring and knowing he couldn’t. This time, he was sending away for a mail-order Richie Tozier who would just turn up, no awkward conversation required. If only.

“I’m sure he’s having a good laugh about it right now.” He plucked at the shirt as he spoke. ‘Relax’. Yeah, he fucking wished.

“That’s a real shame, Eddie,” Ben said, so sincerely that it cut through Eddie’s armour like a sword. “And he won’t laugh. He… he worships you man, you gotta know that.”

_Not the kind of worship I want,_ Eddie thought. “I should get some shut-eye, Ben. Big day tomorrow and all that,” he said, disliking how clipped and business-liked he sounded. It was guilt that made him add, “Thanks for checking on me though. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, no worries. You know we’re always here for you, all of us. Whatever you do, we’ll stand by you. You’ll always be a Loser, right?”

Eddie smiled. “Sure. Always be a Loser.”

“See you at breakfast, bud.”

“Yeah. See you.”

Once Ben rang off, Eddie cast his gaze over to the suit he had hanging up on the bedroom door. He hadn’t given it a second thought when he went looking for Richie’s shirt. And as he sat there, wrapped in the smell of Richie, he knew what he’d rather be wearing later that day. But it wasn’t like he had much of a fucking-

* * *

“- choice to be stood here either, lady, but I need to know where my plane is!” Richie shouted at the uncaring Customer Service employee, a few hours earlier.

It was tight, but by an act of god he had managed to pack, call a taxi and reach the airport before his check-in time passed. He had, in fact, skidded to the check-in line with the grace of a drunken swan, buzzing with the high functioning panic that had been tearing through him since Stan’s phonecall. He had no idea what he was going to do, but there was a long flight and an overnight hotel stay to sort his mind out. Yeah. Plenty of time to think about how to ruin a wedding and potentially the best day of Eddie’s life. No biggie.

When he thrust his ticket and ID under the nose of the attendant, however, her generic service industry smile faltered. “Oh, you’re on the 1:40 flight.”

Richie’s hand tightened around his bag strap. “That’s me. I’m on time, I have a ticket, so please don’t tell me there’s a-”

“I’m sorry, but there’s a delay.”

“-and there we go,” he said, deflating. “You said the thing.”

Craft malfunction, she said. She didn’t appreciate his feeble joke about putting the plane in Drive and trying again. She really didn’t appreciate the way he almost fear-barfed on her keyboard. So he was directed to a bathroom and then to his worst nightmare – the Customer Service desk. And here he was, for the second time that day, suffering.

“Your flight has been delayed, but you can get the next flight to New York, sir,” the employee replied in the same monotone voice as before. “It is in two hours.”

“You said that _four hours ago,_ and I’m still here!” He gestured viciously at himself, in case she wasn’t aware of his very real existence in LAX instead of up in the air.

The employee blinked slowly. Richie was in hell. “All flights are delayed at present, sir. This is due, as I have explained repeatedly-”

“Are all your planes broken?!”

“- to craft malfunction and current storms.”

Richie pointed stubbornly to the glorious sunshine streaming through the terminal windows. The employee raised an eyebrow. “The storm is in the air, sir. On the way to New York. Which is where you are going, if I am not mistaken.”

Oh, great. He got the desk with the extra dose of sarcasm, exactly what he needed. “Thank you for your help,” he growled, stomping away. Once he was out of earshot, he called Stan. “The plane’s fucking delayed again, man.”

“I know. I’m watching the tracker,” Stan replied, his voice strained. “What’s happening?”

“They moved me to another flight. Twice. It’s at 4:00 now, I won’t get to JFK until fucking midnight.” He was sweating. He was sweating so much. Shit, was it hot in here? He could wring out his shirt with the amount of sweat he was making.

“You can crash with me and Patty when you get here,” Stan assured him. “I’ll cancel the car and you can just call a cab when you arrive.” Stan was taking this way better than Richie was. Thank god it wasn’t Bill. “It’s going to be fine, Rich.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re in New York right now,” Richie squeaked. His legs were going to give out. They were shaking with all the extra adrenaline pumping through him. Jesus, he was going to keel over in the middle of LAX before he could see Eddie. Before he could tell him how hopelessly and utterly gay he was for him. At his current rate of success, he really wasn’t holding out hope about the whole thing. He wasn’t sure he could stop traffic, let alone a wedding.

“Richie? Talk to me bud, c’mon, don’t freak out.”

He swallowed dryly. “I gotta wait, Stan. I just gotta sit and fucking wait, and I can’t – how can I _not_ freak out about that?!”

“Breathing is an excellent start.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can’t you take anything? To calm down.”

Richie went quiet. “I don’t think they’ll let me fucking toke in here, man,” he hissed, looking around for a vacant seat. He found an empty spot near a Panera stand and collapsed into it, his legs jittering like crickets.

“That is not remotely what I meant,” Stan said. “I meant pills. You tour and like to hide the fact you’re a nervous wreck 80% of your life, you have to have something.”

Richie rolled his eyes. He obviously had pills. He rifled around in his bag and pulled out the suckers, rattling around in a pot similar to one of Eddie’s. Steve had gotten them for him when he was last on the road. There weren’t many left. “I was saving them for the plane,” he began.

“Okay, well how do you feel right now?” Stan pressed.

Richie thought about it. “Like a jellyfish having a panic attack.”

“Take the pills, Richie.”

“Roger.”

He took them. He called Adrian to check he was okay to look after Dandelion whilst he was gone, since it was more of a “FEED MY CAT” call than anything else before. He stayed on the phone a little while, since the coffee shop was quiet and Adrian was very good at distracting him. He was in the middle of telling Richie about his latest brush with the LAPD when Richie started to feel the drugs kick in. It was almost as though the world slowed down around him too, and nothing was quite as urgent and sharp. Richie sank deeper into his chair and into the feeling. He was relaxing. For the first time that morning. Man, he’d forgotten how nice it was to not want to be crawling out of your skin.

“You never said where you’re going, sugar,” Adrian said, bringing him back to earth. “Not back to Maine?”

“Mmm, no, New York.” His pulse wasn’t racing so much, he could hear his thoughts instead of a stream of consciousness that screamed and screeched its way downriver. “Just waiting for my stupid plane. S’just not turned up, can you believe that?” He loved drugs. He loved them so much.

“Isn’t New York where Eddie- OH.” Richie held his phone away from his ear as Adrian squealed down the line at him. “Are you going to get your boy?!” he asked, delighted.

His boy. They weren’t anything close to that, Richie thought with a lazy grin, but _shit_ Eddie was his something. He had time to work that out. “I’m just going to New York, Ade, nothing special.”

“You liar, you’re going to get him!” Adrian whooped. “You have got to tell me everything the minute you’re home! Oh my god I can’t wait to tell Don oh my god oh my god oh my-”

Richie promised he would tell him everything. With the combined comfort of the pills and Adrian’s contagious excitement, Richie was feeling okay again. Confident, even.

That confidence quickly fled when he opened his eyes four hours later and saw his flight status change from ‘boarding’ to ‘departed’.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit-

* * *

“-shit, you look great!” Mike said, as Eddie neared the table.

“I hope you’re being sarcastic,” he replied waspishly.

The place Eddie had chosen to meet the rest of the Losers was a small place, outfitted like an old-fashioned diner with all the vintage, retro touches. That wasn’t solely the reason however; it was open at 5am, its health rating was exemplary considering the type of place it was and Myra didn’t approve of the fried, giant breakfasts it offered.

Eddie was wearing his suit already, except the jacket – he’d left that in the car. He felt stiff and unsteady in it, like he was nothing more than a cardboard cut-out of a groom. He couldn’t get his fucking cufflinks right and his weird bow thing was choking him and he looked-

“You look a bit like a waiter,” Stan observed.

Eddie could have cried in relief. “Yes! You see it too, oh god I do look like a waiter.”

“No!” Bill piped up, sharing a glance with Mike. “It’s… traditional. Very classic.”

“Don’t listen to them Eddie, you look like Fred Astaire.”

“STANLEY.”

Eddie pointed at him. “You. You are the only asshole talking sense.”

“I honestly think you look good!” defended Mike.

Eddie gazed imploringly at Beverly. “What about you?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again as everyone stared at her. “I can fix it. Come sit by me.”

He obediently slid into place beside her and cast his eyes over them all. Jesus, they all looked fantastic. Bill and Mike had matching grey suits he recognised from Beverly and Ben’s wedding, but Mike was asked to remove his dark red tie with a snap of Beverly’s fingers. Stan’s suit was a charcoal pinstripe, and Patty beside him was in a simple dress that mimicked the pale lilac of his waistcoat, only a shade or two darker. Eddie liked Patty, but she had agreed with Bill and Mike in saying his suit wasn’t bad, so she was in a wavering camp.

And Beverly? Beverly was radiant in a deep, sultry red dress of her own line that was drawing drowsy attention from patrons and staff alike. Eddie was almost certain she’d done it on purpose, but he couldn’t even be mad at her. It was too flattering to be mad at. Ben’s black suit jacket was draped over her shoulders as she fussed over him, and Ben was doing a great deal of the staring too, fond and happy. God, Eddie wished he could be as lucky as Ben; in love with the same girl for years, and he still couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

Beverly undid Eddie’s bowtie first, letting the black fabric slide coolly from the shirt before holding out his arm and undoing the cufflinks completely.

“So,” Patty said, placing her words carefully, “was the suit not your idea?”

Eddie flushed. “No. Myra’s.” It was stupid, but he’d thought making close to no decisions about the wedding would mean he wasn’t so attached to it. That he might not feel it so much. He preferred the numbness. “A-anyway, I thought I’d warn you all. About Myra.”

“You have to warn us? Sounds promising,” Beverly muttered through her mouthful of small silver cufflinks. “Keep still,” she reminded him, when he moved to reach a coffee cup.

“I, uh, right.” Eddie dutifully kept still. “Well, Myra, she… didn’t exactly know you were coming until a few days ago.”

They all blinked at him. “That’s… not surprising, but worrying,” Mike said. “Why didn’t she?”

“Because-” Eddie huffed. “Because she forgot to send out your invites. I found them in a pile on the side when I got home from the lakehouse.” He’d found them in the recycling, actually, and there’d been a full-scale argument about it, but they didn’t need to know that. Myra told him she was sorry, that she genuinely thought he would have told them at the lakehouse, and that was it. That was what she did – she made you second-guess yourself. “That’s why they came late. And from my office. Express delivery, you know.”

“We would have come anyway,” Stan said. “We knew the date.”

“What I’m trying to say is that she doesn’t like you,” Eddie blurted out.

More silence. Someone came over to refill the coffee, then left.

“I don’t know why,” he added.

“Oh, I know why,” Beverly said, still fixing his tie. Her tone was bordering on acidic.

“Sweetheart,” Ben warned, but she ignored him.

“She doesn’t like us because we want to make you happy, Eddie, and she can’t handle anyone else other than her being able to do that. Plus, obviously,” she grinned, “I secretly want to fuck you.”

Patty looked slightly pained at how crude Beverly had made it sound, but Eddie actively flinched. “I mean, yeah, I think you’re right. But that’s the fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, she hasn’t met Ben.” They all laughed, including Ben. “And sorry you’re, uh, not my type.”

Beverly’s gaze softened as she straightened out his tie and leant back, thinking. “We know what _your_ type is.”

“Beverly!” they all hissed, but Eddie waved it away, his stomach clenching unpleasantly.

“No, it’s… it’s fine, I walked into that one. But, uh, maybe just stay out of her way, if you can. Actually, maybe avoid most of her family. Especially her cousins, you’ll know them when you see them. They look like they’ve run into several brick walls and like starting fights.”

He hated the look they all shared around the table, the silent conversation they had. He knew how it sounded. He knew, because it was true.

_“They’re not stepping one foot inside our house once we’re married!”_ Myra had thundered during their argument, gripping the back of a chair like she was planning to throw it. _“They aren’t coming anywhere near us, do you hear me?!”_

“ _I’ll see them when I goddamn like!”_ Eddie had roared back. That was something, he guessed. He’d grown a backbone during his trip, as well as the hole in his chest he didn’t have a hope of filling.

He shook himself. “A-anyway, I’m glad you’re all here. I know it’s hard for you guys to understand but this… this is for the best. And the fact you’re here with me, well…” he shrugged. “Means a lot, you know.”

“Aw, Eds!” Beverly wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.

“Ugh, don’t call me-” He cut himself off as stronger arms, secure and safe, came to mind. “-Eds.” He bit his lip. “It’s… it’s fucked up if I miss him, right?”

“No,” Bill said, after a round of tense silence. “I mean, he’s your friend, right? Same as the rest of us.”

That wasn’t the kind of missing Eddie meant, and they all knew it. It hadn’t been long enough, he kept telling himself. It wasn’t even a full day, he didn’t have the right to miss him as much as he did. Taking a gulp of coffee, he said bitterly, “But Richie made up his mind, Bill. He made some excuse about doing right by me and sprinted out the door. Why should I miss him?”

“Only you know the answer to that, sweetheart,” Beverly said, moving back to admire her handiwork. “There. Welcome to the 21st Century,” she smiled.

He offered a weak smile. Beverly was no miracle worker, but the suit somehow felt better since she got a hold of it. The tie was a definite improvement. “Thanks for the tie, Mike.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” he laughed, “but you’re welcome. You couldn’t exactly take Bill’s, since he’s stood up there with you. Needs to look presentable.” He eyed Bill with a sardonic smile, which Bill returned with a cringe. “Hey, that’s a question. How did you get Myra to agree on a best man on such short notice, especially one of the people she doesn’t like?”

Eddie shuffled awkwardly under the weight of the question. “I had one, before, some guy I work with that Myra likes, but I said he couldn’t make it.”

“How’d you swing that?” asked Ben.

“Oh my god, Eddie killed a guy,” Stan said, totally deadpan, while Patty gave him a chiding smack on the arm and a giggle.

“What the fuck, no, I didn’t kill him.”

“Then what did you do?”

He paused. “Told him the wrong date. He’s on a training day today – should be Friday, but since I’m senior to him and organise the training I had everything moved.”

“Wow, you little snake,” Beverly said, slightly awed. “All that to hear Bill’s subpar best man speech.”

“You said it was good!” Bill defended hotly.

“It’s okay.”

“Ouch.”

They all ate quickly, shooting more questions about the church and the rest of the day, and Eddie tried to answer with a little enthusiasm. But he picked at his food, fighting down the urge to dash to the bathroom and lock himself in. This, all of it, felt like the _end_ of something. It was as though his time as a Loser was drawing to a close, and in its place was Myra, and wedded bliss, and Myra, and saving for a family and Myra.

He put a hand to his head, not sure if he had a migraine coming on or it was the weight of all his thoughts threatening to crush his skull. It was the perfect time for Richie to step up and wrap his arms around him, pulling him too close to his chest so they bumped together. Eddie would slide his hands between Richie’s shirt and his jacket so he felt like he was comforting Richie in some small way too, whatever it was. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t coming.

But that didn’t matter; Eddie didn’t just want him there right then, he wanted him in every waking moment. He wanted him behind the wheel of a Mustang. He wanted him diving off a boat into the water. He wanted him waving an ice cream cone in his face and daring him to bite it instead of just licking.

He stood up so suddenly the condiments rattled together. “We should get going, Bill.”

Bill checked his watch. “Shit, you’re right. Do you guys wanna follow behind?”

“We’ll finish up here, you go ahead,” Beverly said, waving them off. “Should probably turn up when the others do, else that’ll be wrong.”

Eddie’s heart sank. Right. It was just him and Bill. He’d been so used to walking into a place he was unsure of with everyone flanking him, like they were heading into battle, that he’d forgotten it wasn’t something he could do this time.

Bill was up, shrugging his jacket on and sending him a reassuring smile that made him want to scream. “Ready?”

_Never. I’ll never be ready._ But Eddie nodded stiffly, the mere act of rising out of his chair seeming like a Herculean effort. God, his legs were shaking, he needed to get it together. He reached out blindly for Beverly, ensnaring her hand in his. “Bev?” he asked. It sounded like pleading.

She got the message. She stood up and hugged him tight, her arms crossing over his shoulders with a gentle squeeze. Eddie felt a pang of loss. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t Richie. But it would have to do.

“We’ll be right there with you,” she whispered fiercely into his collar.

He shut his eyes. “Thanks. And uh, Bev?”

“Yeah.”

“No surprises.”

She laughed quietly. “Gotcha. No surprises.”

He released her and let Bill lead him away to the cars. To the church.

A minute passed before Patty asked, “So, on a scale of one to ten, how dead is Richie going to be if he doesn’t crash this wedding?”

“Oh, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands,” Beverly replied coolly, earning a worried look from Ben and Mike.

“Get in line,” Stan growled, tapping viciously at his phone as he furtively checked his-

* * *

“-Watch out, coming through, outta my way!” Richie yelled, ducking and diving under people’s arms and over luggage as he tore out of JFK airport like a hurricane. A Red Eye. Another fucking Red Eye. He was going to die if he had to take another one of those. His bank account had taken a beating as he had to buy a new ticket there and then at the airport, and he’d spent the flight refusing to take any more of the pills _and_ refusing to sleep, so touching down held a mixed bag of relief and bone-aching fatigue – but he couldn’t stop. It was 6am. Okay. Still time.

Barrelling into the nearest car hire place, he only managed to mouth the words, “Car-fast-can pay,” as he slammed his body into the desk. The startled receptionist began to ask how long he needed the car and whether he had insurance, but slapping down his licence and a credit card made her stop.

“Late for a, uh, meeting, are we?” she asked conversationally, brow quirked as she typed in his details.

Richie glowered at her, though he caught his reflection in the back of her laptop. He was a mess. There were multiple stains on his button up shirt from where he’d spilt coffee down himself in a bid to stay awake. And his hair – shit, it was all over the place, he looked like he’d been dragged through wasteland. He leant against the desk and _breathed_ , his lungs screaming out for air. “Funny,” he forced out. “Very funny, you… you should be a comedian…”

“Only on weekends,” she replied. Richie made a mental note to look up this receptionist and give her a gig in apology for being such an awful human being so early in the morning. He was going to have so much karma to make up after this trip.

The moment she held out a key Richie snatched it off her and glanced to the forecourt. “Which one-?”

A Prius. Excellent. The Business Douchebag of cars. It was no Mustang, but it’d do.

“Come again,” she called out after him as he bolted out the door.

He ran the stretch of the forecourt to the Prius like a man possessed, his bag bouncing wildly on his back as he skidded to a halt and wrenched the door open. He practically fell into the plush leather interior, throwing his bag into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut before just – sitting there. Staring blankly out at the city in front of him. He was here. He was in the same city. It was a start.

_Okay. Okay, okay, focus, you gotta get to the church. Where… where is the church exactly?_

Bill.

He fumbled for his phone and hit Bill’s information, but the line cut out the moment it started ringing. Richie frowned and tried again. Another cut. “Damnit, c’mon,” he hissed, hitting it one last time. It connected, and his stomach lurched.

“Bill, thank fuck, I’m here, I’m in New York, where’s the-”

“Hello?” Bill’s voice sounded high, strained. “Uh no no I’m sorry there isn’t a Mr Walsh here you must have the wrong number okay okay bye.”

“Hey, hey wai-”

Bill hung up.

“You fucking asshole, stop messing around!” Richie shouted into the phone, even as it returned to his home screen. “I do not have time for this, BILLY FUCKING DENBROUGH.”

He almost hit the number again to shout down the line, until his sleep-addled brain caught up with his fingers.

Oh. Oh shit. Bill couldn’t talk because he was with Eddie.

Guilt, regret and a bit of jealousy caught sharp in his stomach and gave it a strong yank. Bill was with him, they were probably headed to the church right now and Eddie was there, in the same car, in the same space, and Richie wanted to be there too, more than anything, but… shit, he still didn’t know what to say to him. Compiling all his feelings, everything as abstract as the flips his stomach made when Eddie tugged his hair, or the power he got when Eddie smiled that made him think he could do anything… those things couldn’t be contained by something as organised and ordered as _words._

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, holding onto the dashboard for dear life, but it was long enough for Bill to send a message through. Richie opened it with fumbling fingers to find a few hurried lines of text with multiple typos. An address. He tapped the name of the church into Maps, set it off and slammed his foot on the gas.

The car set off with little complaint, and once he was on the road he felt a little better. The remnants of the drugs were wearing off, and tiredness was closing in on him The five double shot espressos kept it at bay for just a bit longer. He only needed a little longer. Another sound signalled the arrival of another message, but he was too busy cutting up a city SUV to pick it up.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, hitting the brake with a jolt as the lights turned. He liked to think it was without warning, and because fate liked to fuck with him. He hated driving in cities, he hated it, he hated it, he hated it.

He checked his phone while he waited, reassured by the fact his destination wasn’t too far away.

[From: StanielbeDaniel, Sent: 06:30]

_\- I swear to G-d if you don’t get here soon I am killing you  
\- Bev and I will tag team_

Richie called them. “Okay, so maybe don’t kill me,” he began.

“Oh, hi Richie!”

He frowned. That… definitely wasn’t Stan. “Patty? That you?”

“Yes! How are you?”

Oh jesus now was not the time for pleasantries. But this was _Patty._ You couldn’t be mean to Patty. He flailed silently in his car, making the interior shake and causing the man in the car next to him to stare, and answered, perfectly politely, “I’m going through it, Patty my doll, could you pass the phone to our mutual love Stanley please?”

“Oh, um…” Patty hesitated. “He’s currently in… discussion with some of the other guests.” Richie could hear the all-too-distinct sound of the Uris Yell, one of the many calls he was familiar with from childhood. “I may need to pull him off soon, someone just said that they know a dealer of exotic Amazonian birds and we might get roped into a rescue mission.”

The lights changed. Shoving his phone into the clip provided, Richie put it on speaker and pulled away with a squeal. “Okay, okay, could you pass me to Bev, then?”

“Oh, sure!” Patty said brightly. “See you soon!”

And that was Patty. So sweet and in love with Stan it made Richie ill. But she laughed at his jokes and liked to mess with Stan as much as he did, so he’d allow her into their little group. She was acceptable. He turned right without warning, causing some pedestrians to leap out of the way with screams and shouts, when Bev finally took the phone. 

“You better be on your way or dead, Trashmouth.”

“I’m the first one?”

“What the hell happened, I thought you were meant to be here last night? We’ve heard nothing from you since!”

“Long story.” He swerved to avoid an oncoming taxi and decided to keep in his lane. He couldn’t risk being pulled over. Not yet, anyway. “Alright, not so long, I fell asleep. Not important. What is important is-”

“How did you **_fall_ _asleep_**?!”

“Sleep deprivation, Beverly, it’s been a long four weeks of crying and insomnia, please focus.” He took another turn. How many turns could there possibly be? New York was such a maze. Ugh. “Where’s Eddie?”

“In the church, staving off a panic attack. Bill’s with him, so we’ll probably have two hyperventilating friends when the doors open.”

“You’re not in the church yet?”

“Richie. Why would I take a call if I was already in the church?”

He paused. She had a good point. “Okay, whatever, just – I’m almost there, just around the corner, so maybe find a way to get him outside so I can talk to him?”

“Do you… do you even know how weddings work? You were a pretty big part of mine, did you just black all that out?”

“Bev.”

“Ugh, fine! I’ll see what I can do, no promises.”

Richie took a final turn and saw the church, neat and pristine, growing bigger and bigger. He let out a sigh of relief. “Bev, I see the church! I’m here, oh god…”

“Great!” she said. “What are you driving?”

“Black Prius. Yeah I know, I don’t think this car has ever had someone like me driving it, thought it might buck me off.” Good, his jokes were coming back. Couldn’t give any good chucks if he was stressed to the nines. He was calming down. He could say his piece and if Eddie wanted a quick getaway then-

“Where are you?”

He frowned. “I’m on the road.”

“I can’t see you.”

“What the- Bev, my sweet, I’m now opposite the church, are you going bli- wait I don’t see you.”

“I’m in red? I’m waving? Everyone is starting to stare at me?” He heard a distant honk. “Oh, that _better_ not have been you.”

“No, no it wasn’t.” He squinted at the church grounds. There was a small gathering, but they were wearing black mainly. Odd choice for a wedd-

He went cold. “Beverly, what is the church called?”

“St. Michaels,” she answered. “Why?”

Richie stared in abject horror at the notice board of the church he was currently parked outside of. It clearly stated, in gilded letters, ‘St. Matthews’. “Oh my god,” he said, the blood draining from his face. “I’m going to-”

* * *

“-kill Bill Denbrough!” Beverly snarled as she hung up the phone. Patty sidled closer, eyes darting from a still arguing Stan to his phone clutched in Beverly’s hand. Beverly noticed and handed it back before she was tempted to throw it to the ground. “He got the wrong church.”

Patty cringed. “Oh no. Is he – I mean, will he get here in time?”

“I don’t know.” She turned to Ben pleadingly. “You worked around here once. Please tell me St Matthews is around the corner?”

Ben tapped it into his phone. Beverly had lived with him long enough to know when he was trying to be optimistic. “Well, he might get here for the actual wedding?” he tried.

“Oh my god, this is a nightmare.”

“Language, young lady!” an elderly guest near them scorned. “I would ask you not to take the Lord’s name in vain, especially not in a House of God.”

Beverly stared blankly at her. “Technically, we’re not in the church right now.”

The woman bristled.

Mike took over. “Sorry ma’am. My friend didn’t mean anything by it, she’s just a little stressed.” The lady boggled at him as if she was seeing an alien. He persisted, undaunted. “Are you with the bride or groom?”

“It’s none of your business, just keep that language to yourselves.” She shuffled away, muttering, “young hoodlums,” under her breath.

“I am 40 years old this year,” Beverly said faintly, “and I haven’t been called a hoodlum since I was 16. Are we _still_ hoodlums, Mike?”

“Apparently,” he answered, watching the guest flee back to a gaggle that were a similar age. They were all watching them, making sure they kept in line. “I can’t tell if she’s Myra’s family or Eddie’s.”

“Hard to say,” Ben said. “We only ever knew Sonia and she hated us. Jeez, that woman still terrifies me.”

Mike frowned. “She died, didn’t she?”

“That’s even worse,” Ben shuddered. “Imagine being haunted by the ghost of Sonia Kaspbrak.”

Beverly frowned. Maybe that was what being Eddie was like. Walking around with Sonia Kaspbrak on your shoulder, in your ear, telling you that you had to be careful and you needed to settle down and you were made of paper, when you were actually made of brimstone. They could both break, but in very different ways.

Stan made his way back to them straightening out his collar. “If one more person makes the Token Jew at a Christian Wedding joke I will punch them.”

Patty clasped his hand. “Oh babe, I’m sorry. No one’s been speaking to us.”

“It’s because I’m fending them off, Babylove. Guess I’m the safe option for these people.” He planted a kiss on her cheek, causing her to smile helplessly and bat him away with a giggle. “What’s Richie’s ETA?”

“Too long,” Beverly replied. Her phone began ringing at the exact moment Stan opened his mouth to have a breakdown, so she gestured at Patty and Ben to explain. She accepted the call and jammed it to her ear. “Talk to me, Rich.”

“It says I’ll get there in half an hour, Beverly! Half an hour!” he shouted down the line at her. “I’m not gonna make it, fuck, what am I gonna do he’s gonna marry her and I won’t tell him how I feel and I’ll just wither into a husk and shack up with some twink half my age who wants me for my money-”

“Richie, no one is withering into a husk or shacking up with a twink!” she hissed, turning away from the group. “You’ll get here, I’ll stall if I have to.”

A young couple chose that particular moment to introduce themselves. “Oh, you’re Stanley Uris!” the man said. “You’ve been calling the office a couple times, are you an accountant? We need a good one of those, our last Jew emigrated to Canada so there’s an opening!”

Beverly heard Stan’s strained laugh and then he was leaning into the phone to whisper through his teeth, “Please get here soon or I’m going to confess my undying love for Eddie instead.”

Richie snorted weakly. “Join the queue.”

As Patty politely explained they were ornithologists (causing the girl to ask if that was a study of eggs and Stan slowly lost his mind) Beverly continued, “Are you driving?”

“I – yeah. Yeah, I’m not sure where I am but-”

“Step on it. They’re – oh shit.” She turned around to see the doors of the church opening. “They’re letting us in, Rich, they’re LETTING US IN.”

“What was that about not panicking?” he said faintly.

“I said you weren’t going to be a husk, I didn’t say not to panic,” she replied as the crowd began to move forward with an excited murmur. “And you will make it,” she added, “if you put your fucking foot down!”

The same old lady gave an affronted gasp and glared in her direction. This time, Mike wasn’t there to stop her silently stick a middle finger up in reply. Hoodlum, was she? She’d give her hoodlum. “Hurry, Rich. I haven’t even met the woman yet and I hate her,” she hissed, before hanging up and rushing to join Ben.

Wrapping an arm around his, she leant into his stride with a sigh. “Will you love me any less if I pick a fight with a pensioner today?”

Ben just smiled, the way he always did. “Well, I trust your judgement on who deserves it and who doesn’t.”

She patted him affectionately. “Good answer, I taught you well.”

Ben leant over to press a kiss to the side of her head, and she bloomed like a spring flower. “I am so glad I’m not out there right now,” he said fondly.

“What do you mean?”

“If I was in that car, trying to come stop you getting married, I would be a wreck.”

Beverly grinned. “Who says Richie’s not?”

“Oh, he definitely is,” Ben agreed, “but he’s pretty brave. He’s still coming.”

“You saying you wouldn’t, Mr Hanscom?” she teased, bumping him with her side as they caught up to Stan and Patty. Patty looked like she was still talking Stan down from taking a swing at the couple beside them, but it appeared to be working. Beyond them was Mike and, wringing his own neck with nerves, Bill. Beverly tightened her grip on Ben’s arm. Oh, he was _dead._

“Hey,” Ben murmured, shaking his arm. “I need blood supply, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” She loosened her grip. Just a bit.

“And I would,” he said. “Come for you, I mean.”

Beverly smiled. “I know. And I’d die for you.”

“Dark.”

“But true. Little bit sexy?”

He grinned. “Little bit.”

They got to Bill. He was flanked by two men who had to be the cousins Eddie warned them about. Sure enough they did resemble bulldogs in appearance, and Beverly took an involuntary step back. She instead glared at Bill. “You-!”

“Not. Now,” he said through gritted teeth.

Fine. There was a time and a place to kick Bill Denbrough’s ass. She instead looked past him to the church, where it had been bordered with lilies and white roses. She frowned. Eddie was allergic to lilies; it was one of the only allergies that were actually real. There were already a lot of Myra’s friends and family spilling into their side, but Eddie’s was looking a little… bare. Ben noticed it too. “Guess Myra has a big family,” he said cheerily to the cousins.

“Something like that,” one grunted.

“Okay,” Bill interrupted, “Ben, Bev, down the front next to-”

“Wait.” One of the cousins stepped forward. He had a crew-cut and a presence that made Beverly think of a cop, or a prison guard. She tensed. “Beverly Marsh?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

Crew-cut shared a look with his – brother? Cousin? It was hard to tell – then said, with finality, “You’re not on the list.”

“What?” Ben, Beverly and Bill said it in a chorus. “What do you mean, she got an-”

Crew-cut cut Bill off. “You’re not wanted here.” He took another step, and his size made Beverly falter. “Ben Hanscom we got on the list, but we were told Beverly Marsh stays outside.”

“That’s not right, there must be some mista-” Bill began, but Ben got there first.

“Hey, you don’t speak to my wife that way.”

Eyeing them up, Beverly was sure Ben could take one of them, but not two. She laid a hand on his arm and muttered, “it’s fine, Ben. Go in without me.”

“What?” he stared at her. “But-”

“Ben. Go in.” She stared pointedly at him. “I’ll wait outside, okay? You need to be here.” She looked to Bill, who still looked like he was squaring up. “And you, cut it out. You have a job to do.”

_Tell Eddie,_ she wanted to say. _Tell him she won’t let me in and Richie’s on his way, that Richie loves you._

Bill set his jaw and nodded, and she really hoped he got it right this time.

“Myra’s almost here,” the other cousin, this one blonde with wandering eyes that Beverly really didn’t like, “so c’mon, Mrs Marsh. You have to leave.” He reached out to her and Ben lunged just as she slapped the hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, white panic flashing through her. She didn’t like anyone touching her, especially someone who looked like they could do damage. It was an instinct, like a dog that had been beaten once and never again. She could see Mike and Stan turning around, standing up, and she backed away. She wasn’t going to cause a scene. Not yet. “I’m going.”

She retreated, glaring down at the two men with a fire that crackled and spat, but she let it be. Once she was far enough away that the cousins stopped staring, she looked up at the church, at the so-called House of God, and let out her anger in a fierce, bitter little ball the only way she knew how.

“MOTHERFU-”

* * *

“-cker, get outta my way!” Richie yelled out his window as he spun the car around in a U-turn. Missed the turning. Fuck’s sake, why were there so many fucking turns? He was slammed into the door with the force of the spin, but he was used to his shitty Mustang skidding on puddles. He steered into the skid, teeth gritting as the acrid smell of burning rubber filled his nose, and then once he was sure the car had gotten its footing again he hit the gas. With a squeal, the car launched forward and hurtled across the next intersection, nearly colliding with a U-Haul truck in the process.

Richie watched the speed dial tick up, but he didn’t move his foot off the gas. He pushed further. He pushed harder. Nothing as mundane as a speed limit was going to stop him getting to that fucking church – from getting to Eddie.

_‘Please take a left’,_ his phone informed him. He swung the wheel around without slowing. A cacophony of car horns assaulted his ears, but he ignored them, dodging and weaving between the traffic. Fuck, he should have hired a motorbike. Sure he couldn’t drive one, but how hard could it be? At least he could squeeze through smaller gaps. He checked the time. 20 minutes. Okay. This was fine.

The navigation was interrupted by another call. He squinted. Beverly, _again?_

He answered just as he ran a red light and received an encore of horns. “Aren’t you meant to be in church?” he squeaked, swerving clear of another Prius.

“Richie what the hell is going on, it sounds like chaos there.”

“That’s me, agent of chaos.” Someone was leaning out of their window to yell at him, so he simply flipped them off and put his window up. “I’m getting there. Where the fuck are you?”

“Outside, Myra took me off the list.”

“What the fuck, why did she- ohhh.” Richie paused. “Wow, she really thinks you and Eddie are fucking, huh?”

“That’s the impression she gave, yeah. I mean, being told to ‘stay away from my Eddie, you whore’ was a good giveaway too.”

“Wait wait wait, you saw Myra?” Richie locked in another right turn that almost spun him out. More horns. He’d be deaf by the time he got there. “She’s already there?!”

“Oh, I met her.” Beverly’s reply had a snarl to it. “She came right up to me, decked out in her finest, tried to gloat. Then she called me a whore so, you know.”

“No I don’t.” Richie dreaded to think. “What did you do?”

“Nothing much. Just told her it’s not my fault her fiancé likes to get his dick sucked by a champion.”

Richie nearly crashed. “You said WHAT.”

Beverly laughed. “Thought you’d appreciate the compliment. Besides, she doesn’t know _who_ he likes sucking his dick.”

Oh my god, this was both the best and worst day of his life. “That’s a good point but I can’t think about that right now because I’m too busy thinking about the fact she’s there, Beverly, and that means they’re starting soon and-” He cut himself off, realisation dawning on him. “Holy shit, Bev. I’m going to crash this thing like they do in the movies aren’t I?”

He could imagine her smile. “Hell yes you are.”

Richie gulped. Destination in 17 minutes. He could do it. He could, for-

* * *

“Eddie, they’re not letting Bev in.”

Eddie spun around to see Bill jogging to meet him at the front, his jacket rumpled and his face set into a grimace. “What?” he hissed, the panic he’d been successfully fighting back suddenly overwhelming him. “How can they not let her in? She’s on the list, I made sure a-and-”

“Your fiancée made some last-minute adjustments,” Bill muttered, clasping his hands in front of him and peering around at their collected group.

Oh shit, Eddie remembered. Myra had taken the guest lists, said she wanted them to see if she could rearrange the seating plan. “ _Don’t worry Eddiekins, I’ll sort it out_ ,” she’d said, ruffling his hair like he was a kid.

He glanced at Bill, horror dropping his mouth. “B-Bill, you gotta believe me, I had no idea.”

“I believe you,” Bill replied, shooting a fierce glare at the two men guarding the door like sentries.

Eddie followed his gaze with a glare to match. He didn’t like those cousins. He hated them, in fact. He’d wanted an excuse to start a fight with them all morning, and now… “I’ll talk to them,” he decided, but as he turned to leave the organ started up. That sound. He knew those opening bars. He’d heard them in rehearsal like a prisoner catching the sound of a death knell on the air. The priest appeared, in robes that reminded Eddie childishly of a Druid from an old history book. With a swoop of his stomach, Eddie realised this was it. It was happening. He was getting married. Myra was coming. _I want Richie,_ the child in him cried out. _I want him here with me, this isn’t fair, why can’t I have him?_

“Bill,” he said, his voice small. He held out a shaking hand. “P-please?”

Bill took it, sweaty palms and all, and Eddie bit his lip. He caught his eye and nodded. Together. They had done plenty together before. This was no different. He had Big Bill with him, and he could be strong for that.

He looked over his shoulder – and just stared. Myra looked – well, she did look nice. Her dress flattered her shape effortlessly, with a few neatly embroidered flowers weaving their way around the bodice and curling at the chest. Her father was walking her down; Eddie spared a thought for his own, nothing more than a faded photograph on the mantle back in Derry. He didn’t know enough about him to know what he’d think of what a shitshow this was turning out to be, but he hoped he would understand. He married his mother, after all.

“Oh my god,” Bill breathed beside him. “It’s Sonia.”

Eddie couldn’t breathe.

“Oh fuck, I need my fucking inhaler,” he wheezed, ignoring the raised brow from the priest. “Bill, please, I’m not going to-”

* * *

“-make it Bev, I can’t do it,” Richie cried, sending the Prius flying over another intersection. “I’m going as fast as I can and it’s not good enough and the cops are gonna turn up sooner or later and they’ll fucking pull me over and that’ll be-”

“Rich, they’ve just started, you have time. Calm down, you’re doing great.”

“I feel like I’m going to explode.” He turned onto another street and saw the counter go down. 10 minutes to destination. He was desperate now. “I can’t stand there and watch him get taken away from me, Bev, I can’t.”

“You won’t have to,” Beverly urged. “You’re so close. Just a few more streets and you’ll be here, just don’t let-”

* * *

“- go of him,” was Myra’s hissed greeting. Eddie wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or Bill, but Bill kept his grip tight on Eddie’s hand, stubbornly silent. Eddie appreciated it; the warmth and solidarity of Bill beside him helped to anchor his feet to the floor.

It brought him a step forward, shielding Bill from view. “You look beautiful, Myra,” he said, because she did. But she was beautiful like a rolling field, or a wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk. He looked at those things and appreciated them, but that was it. Even when she smiled and took his hand like a shy schoolgirl, Eddie was compelled to shift towards Bill.

Her smile dropped when she looked him up and down. “What happened to the bowtie I bought you?”

He glanced down at Mike’s red tie, tightened around his neck by the very woman Myra had kept out. “I changed it,” he answered shortly.

She sniffed. “I don’t like it.”

“Let Bev in, Myra.” He said it under his breath, but the chill in the order was so cold Myra actively recoiled from him.

“Eddiekins, you said you wouldn’t make a scene.” The hand crushing his own didn’t match the quivering lip and the overlarge eyes. He tried to pull away, but she held fast. “You promised you wouldn’t, I’m only trying to keep you – _us_ – safe,” she whispered.

“You’re hurting him!” he heard Bill snap childishly, the way he would when they were kids and standing up for one another in the wilderness of the Barrens.

Myra gave his hand a tug and Eddie took a stumbling step in her direction. “Oh, Eddie, I told you they don’t like me, that’s why I didn’t want them to come. It’s not too late, they can still leave.”

Bill’s hand was shaking. Eddie didn’t look at him. He just looked at Myra. She’d made him take half a pot of antihistamines because lilies were her favourite and she didn’t care if he was allergic, she wanted them at her wedding. She’d made sure two of his closest friends wouldn’t be there. And now she was trying to ease his hand out of Bill’s grasp, bit by bit.

“Please, Eddie,” she simpered, sliding her hand up to twist his wrist just enough to make him grit his teeth. “Tell them to leave.”

Eddie shot her a glare through the white-hot pain that crested up his arm. “Y-you’ll have to break my fucking arm,” he hissed, as the priest began to start his speech about love and God and whatever else. “They stay.”

“But Eddieeeee-”

“They. Stay.”

She released him, quietly furious, but then again so did Bill. The priest was staring at them both. “Are we ready to proceed?” he asked, with a curious look that suggested this wasn’t a usual wedding. Eddie guessed he was right on that one.

He genuinely considered saying no, he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t sure if he could ever be ready – but Myra said, “Yes! Yes of course we are,” with her best, brightest smile and the moment was gone.

The priest nodded sagely and took a breath. “We are gathered here today, in the sight of-”

* * *

“-god, Bev, I can see it, oh my god.”

Richie nearly sobbed in relief as a church melted into view, the right church, with a manically waving figure clad in red jumping up and down in its churchyard. It was either a widow doing jumping jacks on her husband’s grave, or it was-

“I see you! I see you, honk!”

He laid his hand on the horn and let out a long blast that startled the birds from the nearby trees. The figure’s jumping jacks increased. Richie grinned so much his face ached. Shit, he was here. He’d done it. Well, not all of it.

He then realised he was driving way too fast.

“Oh shit.”

He pumped the brake but he wasn’t slowing down quick enough. He was bearing down on the church like a freight train, the Prius squealing as he hit the brake more forcefully, but there was no way he was going to stop. “Shit, shit, BEV GET OUT OF THE WAY.”

Her smile dropped into a small ‘o’ of shock as she dived out of the way just in time to see the Prius mount the kerb and hit the fence encircling the churchyard with an almighty-

* * *

-crash made the whole congregation jump. Eddie twisted around with a jolt, his eyes snapping wide. “What the f-”

“Language, Mr Kaspbrak, please,” the priest chided. Poor guy, this was not what he signed up for when he joined the clergy, Eddie was sure of it.

He adapted. “What was _that_?” He turned to Bill, who was gazing wide-eyed at Stan, Mike and Ben. “Bill, what was that?” he asked, the way he always used to when he needed answers. Bill’s head snapped around to stare wide-eyed at him. He shook his head slowly. Ah. He clearly didn’t have _all_ the answers.

“Can we _please_ carry on?” Myra demanded, stomping a foot impatiently. “Forget about it, it’s probably nothing, just keep talking.” She directed this to the priest, who blinked blankly for a second before recovering.

“Right, where was I? Ah yes, here we are.”

Myra pulled Eddie back to the front, cutting off his view of the others and her glare silencing him. He took a breath, his chest loosening without the need for his inhaler for once, and willed the-

* * *

-car to stop smoking. Was it smoking, or was that just the tires? Oh fuck, would it blow up?

Richie fell out of the driver’s side door and landed on an uprooted headstone. “AUGH JESUS,” he wailed as he scrabbled backwards. Fuck, if he’d thought he was going to hell before he sure as fuck was now. Desecrating a holy place was one thing, but crashing a car into an iron fencing and parking said car onto someone’s grave was probably cause for endless torment. Sorry for that, Bob Gray. Guess you’re gonna have a bit of a headache, wherever you are.

He got to his feet with a groan as his spine popped, and then he was being thrown against the crumpled bonnet of the car without warning. “Hey, what the f-!”

“You’re here,” Beverly said into his collar. “God, could you have cut it any more fine?”

“I’d rather not try, if that’s alright with you,” he replied, lifting her off the ground in a hug. He practically dropped her with how hard he was shaking. “Oh shit.” He leant against the car and squeezed his eyes shut. Lights popped behind them. Fuck, fuck, fuck, now was not the time for a panic attack, come on.

“You’re in shock,” Beverly soothed, brushing his hair out of his face, “you just crashed a car, give yourself a minute.”

He shook his head and pushed her away, using the bonnet as a buffer to stop himself from falling flat on his face. C’mon, legs, _work._ There was no fucking way he was going to let shock get in the way of this shit, not since he was so close. The only thing in his overtired, rattled mind was _Eddie gotta get Eddie gotta tell Eddie gotta help_ , thrumming like a mantra between his ears and deep in his chest. No other words came, none seemed to matter quite as much as _Eddie Eddie Eddie_ and he hoped that would be enough.

“How long have they been in there?” he threw over his shoulder at Beverly.

“A while?” she tried. “Not long enough for the vows?”

“Thanks. That’s very helpful.” He stopped dead as a thought came to him. “Has he said the line?”

“What li-”

“Damnit Beverly, _the_ line!” he exploded, sprinting up the hill to the church now. “If I’m doing this, I’m doing it properly! You know the one, where the priest says-”

* * *

“If anyone here present can show just cause as to why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in holy matrimony,” the priest recited, “let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

Eddie grabbed for Bill’s hand again, held it so hard he could feel his pulse pick up. He waited for the silence to stretch out, to smother him. Because no one was going to say anything, because it was the right thing to do. Because you deserve this. There was a small, feeble hope lurking under the surface that someone would stand up and say something. But he waited for the axe to fall.

In the front row, Stan leant over to Mike and hissed, “Where is he-”

* * *

“-already said it, fuck it.” Richie moved his ear away from the doors he’d almost tripped and fell face first into. He took a breath, let it out. No time to think. Just had to do.

“The doors are a bit stiff,” Beverly said, “so you might have to-”

Richie didn’t let her finish. He retreated a few steps, hoped to fuck he knew what he was letting himself in for, and charged. He slammed his shoulder into the doors with a sickening-

* * *

-boom made Eddie’s eyes fly open. He couldn’t even remember closing them.

“What _now_?” Myra demanded, spinning around with a glare – but her face changed almost instantly. She didn’t look annoyed, or even angry. She looked too shocked to even speak. But then she did. “You!” she snarled.

Eddie went rigid. Oh fuck, he knew that tone. She reserved that for one person in particular. He turned slowly, dropping Bill’s hand. Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck it was-

* * *

-him. Richie’s chest hiccoughed at the sight of Eddie, like his body remembered. Like it was saying, _There you are. I found you._

* * *

_There you are._

* * *

_There you are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving this on a cliffhanger, but I honestly couldn't fit everything in that I wanted to. Join us next week for (probably) vindication!


	15. The Losers have a wedding to get to pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of what was pretty much going to be a monster chapter unless I cut it in two. 
> 
> Again, we got multiple points of view; Richie, Eddie, the Losers...all the fun. We carry straight on from the cliffhanger last week, riiiight after a good ol' fashioned flashback, the nuclear fallout of what Richie decides to say and, well...the chaos that ensues.
> 
> Find me on Twitter @purple_tealeaf to ask qs, follow or just scream into the void, and kudos & comment if you can!

_27 years earlier._

Richie had climbed plenty of trees in his relatively short life. He upgraded one by one to larger trees or more dangerous ones; trees with gnarled branches, prone to snap, or ones that left the world below shimmering in the heat of the summer. That also meant he fell plenty of times, too.

His first was a Birch he climbed in the school playground; he started off reaching for the wrong bone-coloured branch, ended up on his back at the base of the tree with it in his hands and a broken collarbone. He’d been six. He fell a few times after that, too; multiple times on the outskirts of the Barrens, daring Bill to get higher than him, a handful out of the tree in his own backyard. Yeah. Richie was used to falling out of trees, brushing himself down and carrying on his merry little way.

Five years after the first incident, he climbed one of the old Chestnuts on the green, scrambling up like a cat with Bowers and his cronies snapping at his heels. He’d dared to laugh when one of them bit it on the playing field that morning, so naturally they were out for his blood. He only fell out that time because he fell asleep up there, too afraid to come down unless they were lying in wait for him someplace around the corner. He didn’t break anything, but his mom gave him hell for disappearing. That was the last time Richie Tozier fell out of any tree, unless he did it on purpose. That didn’t mean he stopped climbing however – he just got better at it.

His favourite tree to navigate just so happened to be the Ash tree in the Kaspbrak’s back garden. He said it was because there were loads of handy footholds and strong branches, making it pretty impossible to fall anywhere. The fact it was the Kaspbrak’s tree wasn’t relevant, obviously. Eddie, though, was pretty sure it was because Richie had found a way to bestow his presence upon him whenever he felt like it, since the tree itself conveniently took root just outside his bedroom window.

All Richie had to do was throw a couple stones or start making some ridiculous noise his mom would hear and Eddie would open his window to lean out and tell him to shut the hell up. Worked like a charm. Eddie was secretly glad it did.

He was in bed, swaddled in sweaters and blankets even though it was the middle of June, when Richie’s familiar greeting rattled the windowpane. It was just after school, and Eddie hadn’t showed.

He’d made the mistake of sneezing at breakfast and his mom had spun around with horror, nostrils flaring like a rhinoceros’. Eddie froze. He knew the rules: one sneeze would get him a concerned look, two would mean he stayed home, and three meant a trip to the pharmacy or the doctor, whoever got to the phone first when she frantically punched in numbers.

“Eddie,” she warbled, those same nostrils quivering like they caught a scent. Like they could _smell_ his illness. “Are you feeling okay, sweetums?”

Eddie tried. He tried so hard. But his nose felt like it was going to explode. He sneezed again. His mom screamed. And here he was, kept home from school. “You have a weak immune system, sweetie,” his mom said, steering him back up the stairs. “You could catch something really bad if you went to school in this state.”

Eddie didn’t think he was in any state whatsoever. But he tramped back up those stairs, let her bundle him into every sweater he owned, and watched the door shut behind her. Well. At least he could catch up on some reading.

But when he shuffled across the room and flung the window open at the sound of those stones, it was hard to hide how pleased he was to see someone that wasn’t his mom. “You’re gonna break the window someday, cut it out!” he hissed.

Richie was sat with his back against the tree’s trunk, one leg swinging idly from the branch. He probably thought it looked cool, but it didn’t. It just looked like a spindly preteen stuck in a tree – which is sort of what he was. At the sight of Eddie, he gave a grin that quelled all Eddie’s pretend anger. “And miss out on seeing my dear ol’ Eds? No way dude, how could I?”

“Don’t call me that, asshole!” Eddie’s fingers dug into the windowsill. “What do you want?”

“Express delivery for Dr. K, incoming!” Richie rifled around in his pack and threw what was unmistakeably a schoolbook at Eddie’s head. Eddie ducked and was mildly impressed to see it land on his unmade bed. “We got a pop quiz in Bio, poindexter. Use my notes, better write ‘em up quick though – time be a’ tickin’.”

Eddie vanished from the window to retrieve both Richie’s schoolbook and his own from his sadly abandoned backpack, scrabbling around for his pencil case.

“I got a pen I found in the bottom of my bag if you need it,” the window called.

The very thought made Eddie’s nose wrinkle. “No way, you suck your pens, keep that shit away from me.”

“Aw c’mon, your mom doesn’t mind sucking my-”

“Beep beep, Richie!”

He obediently fell silent. Eddie found a pen and crossed to the window, both books tucked under his arm as he flung off the blanket like a cloak. “Outta the way, I’m coming out.”

Richie blinked owlishly behind his glasses. “Really? You sure?”

Eddie had been out on the tree before, though when he did he spewed about a billion health and safety regulations he’d read off signs and somehow retained. Usually, he had to be convinced. But not today. Today he was lonely, and wanted to feel like a normal kid for once. But he didn’t say that. He said, “Yeah, I want fresh air,” and put a knee on the windowsill to start crawling out.

Richie watched him inch forward, one hand still stuck in his pack. “Didn’t even have to tempt you with the latest Captain Planet, dude, maybe you _are_ going crazy in there.”

“Beep beep.”

“Aw c’mon that wasn’t even a joke.”

“I’m trying to concentrate, stop talking.”

Mercifully, Richie let up. He scooted aside and swung into the branches above the hollow, letting Eddie reach the easiest spot. Eddie could sense Richie’s eyes on him, making sure he wasn’t about to fall and have some explaining to do to his mom. But then, once he propped himself against the trunk and wriggled out of his sweaters, Richie was still watching him. Ugh. He wasn’t a _baby_ , he wasn’t going to fall _now._ He couldn’t climb trees like Richie could, but he did okay.

He opened Richie’s book and balanced it on his knee, squinting at the hastily scribbled notes. “You got such bad writing, dude,” he commented.

“And yet inside doth beat the heart of a poet,” Richie recited eloquently, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest.

“My mom says neat writing makes a neat mind,” Eddie sniffed, still trying to decipher Richie’s code-like squiggles.

“So that means my mind is-?”

“A sewer, genius.”

“Ugh, Mrs K, you know me so well. We’re practically soulmates,” Richie swooned.

“Beep. Beep.”

“Fine.” Richie lasted three whole minutes (Eddie counted) before he asked, “Sooo speaking of Mrs K, what you in for this time?” He peered down at him. “Sore pickle?”

Eddie debated throwing the pen at him. “Ugh, gross, no. I got a cold.”

“Nothing more exciting than that? Not gonna cough up your whole oesophagus?”

Eddie had a feeling his mother had forced all the sweaters and blankets on him so he got a temperature and she could screech down the phone to his doctor about a fever tomorrow, but he didn’t say that. He just sighed. “She was gonna find a way to keep me home today anyway. At least I wasn’t in the emergency room all day.”

“Today a particularly special day?”

Eddie frowned. “It’s her anniversary. Y’know, when she and Dad got married.”

“Ah.” Richie paused. “That must suck.”

Eddie kept his gaze on the notes, but nodded. His mom was extra cautious, extra paranoid, extra protective of him on these days. She cried the first couple years after Dad died, but now she was just wound up tighter, darting looks at Eddie like he was going to catch fire. Eddie had read about that in a book once. ‘Spontaneous human combustion’, it was called. Eddie thought about ‘spontaneous human combustion’ a lot. Sometimes he wondered if you could catch a fire inside you like a fever – because if you could, he thought he might have it. When his mom would remind him how delicate he was, how he had to be careful and not play with the rough boys and leave the girls alone too, it felt like stuff caught alight and started burning inside him.

And here it was again, sat in a tree with Richie sneaking looks over the top of whatever comic book he was reading. A burning.

To distract himself, he wrote down a few notes he could make out and said, “I guess she misses him or whatever. And she doesn’t wanna lose me like she lost him.”

Richie made a curious hum in the back of his throat, something he did often when he wasn’t sure what to say, and went back to his comic book. He kept swinging his leg dangerously close to Eddie’s face. Eddie knew he was doing it to annoy him. He kept catching sight of it out of the corner of his eye and wanted to grab his shoe and demand he keep it still. But he was still burning, and he was afraid that if he moved too quick it could spread. Maybe if he stayed where he was, it would burn itself out.

So instead he became fixated on Richie’s knobbly knee, scratched and scabbed over from when he’d fallen over last week at the Barrens. The joint seemed to pop in and out of a socket with every swing. It made Eddie a little sick. It also made the burning sharp. He looked back to his notes, frowning.

“Being married makes people crazy,” Richie announced a beat later, face stuck in the comic book’s pages.

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My cousin says so. The cool one, so you know it’s true. You get all… stuck to one another. She says you stop being one person, you start being two. Like if you married Greta Bowie…”

“I am not marrying Greta Bowie!”

“- you wouldn’t be Eddie Spaghetti and Greta Bowie, you’d be EddieandGreta.”

“So you’d be RichieandBeverly,” Eddie shot back.

To his delight, Richie blushed. “Y-yeah, I guess.” He put down the comic book, ignoring all pretence. “But I’m not getting married. So.”

“Wait, what?” Eddie stopped pretending to take notes. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be crazy,” Richie answered with a shrug. “You’ve seen my folks. Mags gets on at Went all the time, then they fight over something dumb and tell me to get out the house for a while.” He made a face. “Like I don’t know what they’re doing. It’s gross. Parents shouldn’t still be doing it, like, ever.”

Eddie hadn’t ever thought of Mr and Mrs Tozier Doing It. He didn’t then, either; he just thought of how happy they always seemed. Out of all his friends’ parents, they still smiled whenever they saw each other and still kissed – especially when Richie was there to be grossed out about it. “Married young,” he’d overheard his mom tell her neighbour once. “Bad Boy Wentworth Tozier got sweet li’l Margaret knocked up and she became- well. Maggie.”

But Eddie liked Mrs Tozier; she made the best cookies for them all, let them stay up late if they stayed over, talked to them all like they weren’t kids. Richie always rolled his eyes and groaned, “Mooooom”, but he had to. She was his mom. Eddie thought she was the coolest. “I think your Mom and Dad just love each other,” he said.

Richie stuck a finger down his throat and made a gagging noise. “Gross gross gross. Anyway, getting married means you either turn into my parents or you turn into Bill’s, and I dunno what’s worse.”

Eddie scowled at him, but he had a point. Bill’s house had a creepy feel to it. His parents didn’t talk, or smile, or kiss. They just sort of… existed. Eddie didn’t know how Bill stood it.

“No one’s telling _me_ what to do or how to dress or when to be home for dinner,” Richie added, almost proudly.

For some reason, this caused Eddie to blurt out, “That’s not what getting married is, dickwad.” Richie’s brows peeped over his huge glasses’ frames. “I want to get married someday,” he added.

Richie scoffed. “You would, Momma’s boy.”

“Shut up!”

“Go on, then.” When Eddie looked up, Richie had arranged his limbs so he was sat cross-legged above him. That weird knee was bouncing, the scabs dirty. “What is it, Dr. Lurve?”

Eddie did throw his pen at him then. “Shut up, god! You get married because you wanna spend all your time with one person all the time. Your _favourite_ person, your best friend. And you get to have a house and have them there when you’re sick or sad or happy, and you’re there for them too.”

He wasn’t really sure where this was coming from or why he cared so much. He was thinking of the serials his Mom watched on TV, and what happened in the movies after the bad guy got defeated and everyone was happy. The leading man would kiss the leading lady and they would get married. Or something. He remembered something else, something important and adult. “Also you get better tax.”

“You almost got me until you used the words ‘better tax’.”

“Ugh.”

“But you really believe that shit?” Richie seemed genuinely curious. “That stuff about being with your favourite person?”

Eddie thought about it. Did he? When he tried to imagine feeling that way, about finding a nice girl to settle down with, his mind sorta greyed out. He knew the right answer. He knew what he _hoped_ for. “Sure I do. It’d be a blast, living with your best friend. Eating what you want, sleeping when you want, going on trips… it would be like, I dunno, living with you.”

At this, Richie went very still. “Me and you?” He sounded like the time he got a gobstopper stuck in his throat and Stan had to give him the Heimlich he learnt in Scouts.

“Well, yeah, kinda,” Eddie answered. “But not us, cus we’re two boys. With girls.”

“Oh.” Richie moved again, looping his arms around his knees and hugging them tight. “R-right, sure, girls.”

Eddie didn’t understand why that same burning seemed to surge at that moment. Shit, he should probably leave the tree if he was going to set on fire. But he also wanted to cry a little bit, which was… confusing. “You could marry Beverly! She likes you and you went on a date with her,” he offered.

Richie shrugged. “I dunno man, she’ll probably marry Bill.”

“Someone else then!” Why was he pushing the point? What was wrong with him? He clutched at the first girl name he could think of that wasn’t Beverly. “Betty Ripsom?”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Richie didn’t seem convinced. “Or maybe I just. Don’t.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a real one. It was one he used when he’d been beat on by Bowers and didn’t want anyone to worry. “The Trashmouth wasn’t made to say the ol’ ‘I do’s’.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“So are you if you don’t copy my notes.” Richie threw his pen back at him. “C’mon man, write! I need to get back for dinner.”

“So stop distracting me and maybe you will!”

“Less gripin’ more typin’.”

Their bickering continued until Eddie finished the notes and Richie finished the comic book. Richie was definitely late for dinner, but neither mentioned it. All Eddie thought was that, sitting in their tree, it was a little like living together. Just for a short while. And that maybe he’d give up all the Greta Bowies in the world for that.

Which worried him, and made the fire roar in his stomach.

* * *

And here Eddie was, looking right back at the man that boy turned into. And he realised why Richie said he’d never get married that day. Because he _couldn’t._

Richie looked terrible; his hair was even messier than normal, the shirt he was wearing was dark with stains and his body – his _whole_ body – was heaving, like he had just run a marathon. But it was Richie. He’d come. Holy shit, he was actually here, with him.

Myra was practically vibrating with rage. “How dare you show your face here!” she spat. “Who do you think you are, get out!”

Richie’s throat bobbed as he swallowed back a gulp. “No,” he said. Fuck, he sounded terrified. He tried again, but this time his eyes slid to him, to Eddie. “I’m… I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to, Eds.”

Eddie didn’t speak. There was a mental block somewhere in his brain that made talking difficult.

“I’m sorry,” the priest interjected, “Do you have something to say?”

Richie stepped forward, and Myra recoiled in horror as though he were a demon. “Get away!” she hissed, grabbing hold of Eddie’s hand in a crushing vice. “Stay back!”

He stopped, his eyes wandering down to their hands. His lip curled, but not in a snarl – in pain. A slow wince, something that tore at Eddie like claws. A murmur rippled through the assembled group. Richie’s eyes darted between Myra, the priest and finally Eddie. He gulped again.

Eddie moved towards him, and though Myra tried to pull him back he resisted. “Richie,” he said, his voice close to shattering, “What are you-”

* * *

“-doing here?”

_Eddie. Focus on Eddie, he’s why you’re here, forget the others. But fuck, he had to look good in a suit, didn’t he? Had to make this harder._ But Richie took comfort in the fact he didn’t look mad. He just seemed… stunned. Maybe he hadn’t believed Richie would get on a plane and practically crash a car for him. Well. He had to change that.

“I’m here for you,” he said, surprised at how even his voice stayed. He spotted Myra – Jesus, _this_ was Myra? – tug Eddie’s hand closer.

The priest sighed. “So you have a reason why these two shouldn’t marry?”

Sheesh, this guy needed a fucking raise. Richie swallowed painfully, the words rising up like bile. Everyone was looking at him. Everyone could see. This wasn’t like being up on stage, ready to trot out the Trashmouth persona and get the folks laughing. This was like stepping out under those spotlights naked, and not telling stories for once, but telling the truth. He was going to throw up. He couldn’t throw up. He had to get something out, something simple and obvious and past due.

_Oh fuck, here goes._

“Because,” he cleared his throat. “Because I love him.”

Eddie looked like he’d been hit over the head with a sledgehammer. Myra screeched, “No you don’t! And even if you do, he doesn’t love you and he doesn’t want you here.”

“Maybe he doesn’t,” Richie said, the suggestion slicing through him, “but he deserves to know.” He glanced back to Eddie, how he was staring, and it nearly broke him. This wasn’t how he wanted it to go. He wanted it to be romantic; he wanted to fade out and watch some actor take over and express everything he needed to, and then he could beam back down once it was all over. But he couldn’t do that. Instead here he was, his heart in his throat, and he just had to let it bleed.

“Look, I know I drive you nuts. I give you nicknames you don’t like, I don’t leave you alone when I know something’s bothering you and sometimes you look at me and I swear you wanna kill me. But… but…” He sighed. He walked forward, Myra be damned. “We have these… these moments, Eddie. These…I dunno, sparks that get caught between all the arguing and the sniping and the… the bullshit…”

The priest coughed.

“Sorry.” Richie carried on. “And they make you smile, Eds. They make you laugh. And I swear to you, I would give up a whole audience to hear you laugh like that again.”

Oh God, tears were coming. Really? His body would betray him now? He’d held them at bay since his apartment, but now they were rising to the surface like the ghosts of breakdowns past.

He fought them back with a sniff and said, “I’ve always wanted that, since we were kids. Since we sat in that tree in your backyard and you told me about living with your favourite person. Because you _are_ my favourite person. Always will be. A-and I know I’m not, uh, conventional or grown up and I earn buttons compared to you but-”

God, this was truly awful. All he sounded was desperate, pleading. But he guessed that was all he was – some dumb, desperate, heartsick asshole. But he had to try – god, he had to _try_.

“- but I can be those things, I swear, I can try, I can be that person you deserve if that’s what makes it okay for you.”

Eddie was tearing up. Fuck, was that good or bad? Richie ploughed on. “A-and I know I said I didn’t wanna get married back then, but if that’s what you want, if that’s what you need so you know I am fucking crazy about you and I want that too, th-then, uh…” He dug around in his pockets and pulled out the one thing he’d kept hold of all those years. The Ring of Power. The frayed pipecleaner, with the dollar store gem on it. He held it out, more as a peace offering than anything else. “H-here.”

The murmuring grew louder around him, like a wave swelling before it hit the shore. Richie wasn’t sure he wanted to be here when that wave hit, but then again that depended. He kept his eyes on Eddie, not wavering even though he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, yell ‘SIKE’ and run like he always fucking did. He waited. He braced himself.

Myra was the one who spoke. “Right. Now you’ve said your little piece, you need to leave. We don’t want you here. Nobody wants you here.” She let out a short laugh of disgust, and there Richie was. Thirteen again, on his back where he’d been pushed and Bowers laughing above him, Belch kicking his ribs in, Hockstetter spitting on him and calling him a faggot, a gayboy. But this time he didn’t fall on his ass. He stayed standing, somehow. “And who would want _you_? Some second-rate comedian who’s more of a joke than his act, some… some _sodomite_ who weasels his way into other people’s lives and takes things from them. Just because he can. You’re nothing, to anyo-”

“Okay.”

Richie jerked his head back to Eddie, his eyes wide as the vision of himself disappeared. “W-what?”

Eddie wet his lips nervously as all eyes in the church turned to him. He took hold of Myra’s hand that was still gripping him, and gently peeled away her fingers. She stared furiously at him, her mouth dropping open as he took a breath and stepped away from her. “I… I said okay, Rich. I believe you.”

The priest cleared his throat. “And do you love this man, Mr Kaspbrak? This, uh-”

“His name is Richie Tozier,” Eddie answered, blinking back tears as he gave Richie the fondest, most ‘you’re-a-fucking-idiot’ eye-roll he’d ever given him. “And, even though his time-keeping is terrible… I do.”

Warmth exploded inside Richie, burning away all the cold and the aches and the pain. He found himself smiling, so wide it was painful, and he even let out a disbelieving laugh as Eddie smiled too. Because this couldn’t be happening, surely not, Eddie hadn’t just told him he-

He was too busy coming to terms with not being rejected for once that he didn’t spot Myra fly at him out the corner of his eye until it was a second too late to avoid her fist. She punched him square in the jaw with a cry of rage, Richie went down in an explosion of pain, and all hell broke loose.

* * *

Beverly had snuck into the church behind Richie, watching the whole thing with a fond smile because it was nice, for once, to see Richie try to talk without messing it up. So, when he hit the deck and the other Losers shot out of their seats with yells and shouts, she was the one who could get there first. With a wild howl, Beverly took off her heels and charged, launching herself at Myra before she had time to get in another hit.

“You leave him alone!” she screamed, and as the congregation dissolved into chaos Eddie joined her in trying to pull her off Richie. She was either trying to choke him or crush him – she clearly hadn’t quite decided yet – but hysterically screaming about him ruining everything, that her Eddie wasn’t like that, was apparently also high on Myra’s agenda. Beverly would have felt sorry for her, if she wasn’t trying to kill one of her best friends.

Eddie had one of her arms, but even hollering in her ear to let go of Richie wasn’t doing any good. She was like an attack dog and no one knew the safeword to get her to unhinge her jaw. Dropping her heels entirely, Beverly body-checked her and sent her flying backwards, staggering a little on her dress train. Her bridesmaids screamed, but none of them came forward to help. Maybe they were scared of her – or maybe they were more scared of Beverly. As Myra got to her feet, she sneered, “You. You sly, vicious little whore!”

She spun around and slapped her across the face, wrenching her head to the side. It hit with devastating clarity, the sound of it echoing around the church. Ben roared like a wounded bear and vaulted over the pew ahead of him to reach her, but the red mist was already descending. Beverly brought her hand to her face and turned back to Myra. She’d made a promise to herself once that she wouldn’t let anyone slap her again. Myra had missed that memo.

She tried to line up another slap, but this time Beverly was ready. She saw the hand whip out, lightning fast. She reached out and grabbed, catching hold of Myra’s wrist before it made impact. She grinned wolfishly as Myra blinked, wrongfooted. “You know, there’s a benefit to running with a bunch of boys growing up,” she said cheerily, “and that is that I can fight dirty.” She smiled dazzlingly, then head-butted Myra with such force her own teeth knocked together.

“Bev, what the hell?!” Bill shouted above the noise.

“You can take the girl out of Derry, but you can’t take Derry out of the girl, Billy!” Beverly called out, wiping what was definitely Myra’s blood off her forehead before she had the chance to lunge again.

“BEVERLY.”

Ben. “Did you see that?” she said, spinning around to find him. “I think I broke her nose!”

“BEHIND YOU.”

She turned in time to see one of the Cousins cracking his knuckles and heading her way. “Oh shit.” She ducked away from a Myra who was two seconds away from nuclear fallout since she now had blood streaming down her nose and soaking into her dress, and snatched up one of her abandoned shoes. Red heels. A Beverly Marsh staple. She’d miss them. She threw it at the Cousin coming for her, and he grunted in pain as it bounced off his shoulder. Okay. That wasn’t the best idea. The guests were all out of their seats now, and though some were heading for the doors there was a startling number that were spoiling for a fight. Maybe they would preoccupy Bouncer Cousins for the time being.

Stan led Patty out from the pews and managed to get to the pulpit without accidentally engaging in a fistfight. “Okay,” he said, looking out at the pandemonium, “You stay here, Babylove.”

“The hell I am!” Patty argued. Oh, he loved her. “Where are _you_ going?”

Stan faltered. “Someone needs to look after Bill.”

Patty wasn’t convinced, and proved it by pointing into the throng of people. “The couple with the parrot connections are over there punching the bridesmaid’s husbands, honey.”

Stan took her face in his hands and planted a large kiss on her lips. “I love you,” he stated plainly.

“What would you do without me?”

“Sometimes I think that myself.”

Patty grinned and kissed him again, breaking it only to say, “I’m right behind you, Stan the Man.”

Stan grinned and turned to where the man of that particular couple had someone in a headlock. “Hey! You! Amazonian parrots are an endangered species, you fucker, get over here!” He ran into the fray with a hoarse battlecry, Patty cheering him on with cries of, “Non-lethal moves only, Babylove! Non-lethal!” ringing around the church.

Mike was wrestling with who he assumed was the father of the bride, a thick-set man with bulging eyes similar to Myra’s. He hadn’t gotten much of a choice, since the minute he got out of his seat this man went for him like a rabid dog. He wasn’t sure who it was _exactly_ because he kept moving out of range, jabbing at his side with a punch like a boxer, then retreating again. Mike was pulling his punches – strong or not, this guy was still an old man – when Bill flew into him from the right and knocked his feet from under him. They collapsed together near the lectern, pain blossoming in Mike’s shoulder as he apparently cushioned Bill’s fall, and stared up into the horrified eyes of the priest. “Um,” Mike began.

“My father told me to work on Wall Street like the rest of the family,” the priest said faintly. “God, I should have listened.” He then dived out of the way of something thrown in his direction and disappeared behind the altar.

“You okay?” Mike asked, shuffling out from underneath Bill to look him over. He seemed a little dazed, lying there in his arms.

“My hero,” he grinned lazily. Then he frowned. “I think… I think someone just _threw_ me, man.”

Mike blinked. “I don’t think so, Bill, no one could-”

“The one with a crew-cut just threw Bill, holy shit!” Beverly screeched, though she looked busy trying to field Myra from the pile of Richie-and-Eddie on the floor.

Mike got to his feet, tugging Bill up with him. “Okay, you go sit in one of the pews until the room stops spinning.”

“Where are you going?”

Mike glared in the Cousins’ general direction. “No one throws Bill Denbrough like a goddamn frisbee and gets away with it.”

“Okay it wasn’t like a frisbee, more like a large rock or- Mike? Mike COME BACK YOU ARE A LIBRARIAN THEY WILL DESTROY YOU.”

Eddie was on his knees, knelt over Richie as he fondled his jaw and gasped for breath. “Richie? Richie, fuck, get up, you don’t just say all that shit and then keel over after one punch, come on, shit, I didn’t think she would ever do that, fuck is that _blood_ -”

Richie’s eyes seemed to swim into focus as he poked the spot Myra’s fist had slammed into. He winced and rolled over to spit a gobbet of blood onto the floor. “Bit ma tong’,” he explained. Then he hesitated just long enough for recognition to arrive in his face. Eddie hovered nervously over him, checking for signs of concussion or internal bleeding or- “Eds. Eds, holy fuck, did I just get suckerpunched by Sonia Kaspbrak?”

Eddie’s expression soured. Okay, nevermind, he was not only fine but he could fuck right off. “That,” he said, giving Richie a smack on the arm that made him squawk, “was Myra, dickwad.”

“Huh, no shit, I coulda swore it was-” Eddie’s glare quickly made him change his mind. “Ohhhh. Myra. Yep. Totally different.” He grinned. “Myra’s taller.”

Eddie snorted, and there it was again. That feeling, that burning, the one he’d always assumed was the precursor to bursting into flame when he was a kid. But he knew what it was now. He thought back to some of the first words Richie said to him at the lakehouse: “you gonna kiss me or punch me?”

Was he going to let him in or push him away? Would he accept him or reject him? Yes or no?

He answered it by cupping a hand to his face, thumb brushing over a few days’ worth of bristly stubble, biting his lip around a smile. “You’re an ass, Rich,” he said, finally letting a single tear trickle free. “Fuck, I missed you.”

The humour, Richie’s last defence, fell right before Eddie’s eyes. He was beaming, actually beaming. “You did?”

Eddie nodded, reaching down to press a kiss to his forehead, his fingers creasing slightly. “You took your fucking time,” he sighed, “but thank you. Never thought I’d be so glad to have someone crash my wedding.”

“You have _no idea_ what I went through to get here and pour my heart out to you, Eds. I was definitely going to be giving you a bill for travel if you told me to get fucked.”

Eddie laughed. “I’m sure you’ll hold it to me forever. But you have to get up, idiot, someone’s gonna step on you.”

“Mm, but I had like three hours’ sleep over almost two days, the floor is flat and horizontal, I like it here.”

Eddie ignored him, moving aside to grab his arm. He pulled, but it was no use. Richie was a whole six foot two inches of gangly manchild, and Eddie definitely wasn’t strong enough to lift him on his own. “Come on goddamnit, move!” he insisted.

He looked up at the exact moment Stan rushed Myra’s crew-cut Cousin and sent him directly into the rows of pews nearest him. He stared, nonplussed, as Patty ran after him shouting, “That’s what you get for throwing Bill, you brute!”

The horrendous noise that followed made everyone pause their own fights; Beverly was pulling the head bridesmaid’s hair with what was clearly a set of scratch marks tracking down her face, Ben was holding Myra back from leaping at Richie again and Mike had an extremely angry blonde Cousin on his hands. “Holy shit,” Eddie said. “Jesus, fu- guys. What the hell are you do-”

His question was drowned out by Myra’s scream over Ben’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, Eddie! How could you let your friends in and ruin this for us? I love you!”

Eddie straightened up. Okay. Brave. Time to be brave. “I – I don’t think you do. Not really, anyway.”

“What?! Of course I do, that’s why I look after you and make sure you’re not-”

“You control me, Myra. You want me to be something I’m not, and I’m sorry.”

“You are SICK,” she pressed. “You are, I know you are, but you’ll get better, I’ll make you better, just come home with me and leave these vile people alone and everything will be fine.”

“I think I know what makes me better, and you punched him.”

Myra’s nostrils flared. She shoved against Ben, but he held firm. “You’d choose _him_ over _me_? He doesn’t make you better, he’s the sickness! He’s the reason I gave you those pills in the first place!”

“Hang on, what?” Richie was getting to his feet slowly, his expression a little dazed. “What pills?”

“The ones that made him pass out,” Bill called out from his pew seat. He seemed a little dizzy, but as he stood up and staggered closer Eddie could see his mind whirling, putting all the pieces together. “Back in the lakehouse, she… she put something in the orange juice, didn’t she Eddie? You threw it out once we spoke about it, you said it was off but it looked fine… you’d figured it out, hadn’t you?”

Richie turned slowly to face Myra, and Eddie didn’t have to imagine the way his hackles went up. “You were fucking _drugging_ him?”

“It was for his own good!” Myra hissed. “You lot disgust me, you’re unnatural. With your filth and your perversions and I had to hear it. Every night. Your name, out his mouth.”

Eddie tensed. “That’s enough!”

“ _Richie, I need you”,_ Myra spat, reciting his sins like she was in confessional. “ _Richie, please, Richie don’t go._ Richie this, Richie that. And I had to lie there, listening to it, knowing I wasn’t good enough, and I had to do something about it.” She sniffed. “I had to get my Eddie well.”

She really was spitting venom now, like a dying snake. And it was getting to Eddie. It was getting into his blood, cold enough to chill. No one had to hear that. Richie didn’t have to hear that. It was his secret, his thing to conceal, and Myra had laid it bare in front of everyone in the fucking church. He wanted to beg for it back, wanted to stuff it back in a pocket and forget it ever came out, but he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t fucking look at Richie. Hopefully the venom would reach his heart and he’d just collapse. Better that than suffering through this.

What happened next surprised him. Richie started walking, and both Mike and Stan ran to restrain him. “You knew?” Richie asked, and _wow_ that didn’t sound like Richie at all. It sounded sharp and angry, but he didn’t raise his voice. It just cut that way, like a sharpened blade. “You _knew_ he was struggling with who he was, how he felt, and you didn’t let him go?”

“Rich, take it easy,” Mike said, tightening his grip on his arm. Eddie wanted to go to him too, but his feet were rooted to the spot. Because Richie was right: even if Eddie hadn’t wanted to admit it, that didn’t mean Myra didn’t suspect. He knew she had. She’d told him the dreams were inappropriate, wrong, but they should have talked about it. That was what normal people did. Instead she slipped him sleeping pills to smother the dreams – to smother _him._

“Because he’s mine!” she shrieked at Richie. “I got there first, he’s mine and I love him and that’s enough! You can’t have him, because once we get married and we’re together properly he’ll realise I’m the one he needs around to look after him. Not someone like you, someone who’ll corrupt him and make him dirty and vile just like you.”

Richie lunged, but Mike and Stan were ready for him. They hauled him back with ease, telling him to calm down, but Eddie knew there wasn’t enough fight in Richie. He might have been too tired to really do anything, or he might have realised there was no point in arguing. You would never win an argument with Myra – you walked away. And that was exactly what he had to do.

“We should go,” Beverly chipped in. “C’mon. If someone’s called the cops they’ll be on their way.”

Eddie wanted nothing more, but Richie was still glaring at Myra like he wanted to burn a hole in her. He unstuck his feet for long enough to go to him, laying a hand on his arm just above where Mike held him. “Rich, it’s not worth it. Come on.” He felt the tension leave Richie’s body, even though he kept up the glare. “Richie.” He gave his jacket a sharp tug, enough to get Richie looking at him. “Let’s go.”

“I’ve called the police!” Myra squalled, causing everyone to disentangle from one another and make for the doors. “I’ll make sure you never work again,” she sneered, pointing a trembling finger at Richie.

“Are you kidding?” he asked, his smile vicious. “Crashing a wedding, getting punched by the bride and causing a fight in the church? The material writes itself, the audience loves that shit.”

Eddie shot him a warning look – it better not be in his next fucking material – but as they shuffled out he gave Myra one last look. She stood there swaying slightly, the time for waterworks clearly over. She just glowered at him hatefully, like a child who’d had its favourite toy taken away. Eddie swallowed the anger, the hate, the hurt, and remembered that she had been his friend once. He had to be the bigger person.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry, Myra,” he said, the others filing out as he talked. “I’m sorry I’m not the man you wanted me to be. You tried to make me that man, but I get it. You just wanted what everyone else had. You can still have that, you just can’t do it the way you did this. And Richie is none of those things. He makes me happy. If you did love me once, surely that means something?”

Myra’s eyes shone with tears, and these might have been real. Two identical little globes, ones he’d seen fill up before, were filling up again. Eddie honestly thought he saw the hint of a smile, small and grateful, before she let out a scream, reeled back and –

* * *

“I deserved that.”

“No you didn’t, Eddie.”

“I dunno. I think I did.”

They were all crammed into Stan and Patty’s hotel room. Without discussing it, they all arrived at the hotel and filed out, heading up the stairs to the room without much to say. They picked Stan and Patty’s because it was biggest; Bill and Mike’s was smaller, even though they’d booked to share a room again. That fact would have raised a few eyebrows if they weren’t all reeling with the aftershock of the past few hours. Or maybe that was just Richie.

Richie, who was lying almost flat out on the floor willing his bones to stop hurting with fatigue. Richie, who at that exact moment had his head in Eddie’s lap and was getting his hair gently played with. Richie, who was pretty sure he’d slipped into a coma and woken up in a parallel universe where everything went right for once, except –

“Ow, ow, ow, Bill, fucking hell just finish me off why don’t you?”

Yes. That.

He’d appreciated Eddie’s attempt to smooth things over, or at least get some closure, but Myra apparently hadn’t. Hence the way she punched Eddie so hard her engagement ring cut his brow and his eye was beginning to swell up.

“You’ll have a shiner for sure,” Beverly said with sympathy, and Eddie pressed an ice pack even tighter to the eye. “And even though she called the police, Myra won’t be able to press charges. We have enough evidence that she was drugging you and manipulating you to scare her off.”

Richie wondered why Eddie didn’t look at least a bit comforted by that.

They had turned the room into a medical station; there were icepacks and antiseptic wipes spread out over every available surface, and even some adhesive stitches and bandages Eddie demanded they get. They’d taken it in shifts to go to the closest store for supplies, but Eddie had gone every time, “in case they got the wrong stuff”. As a result, everyone was patched up okay – now it was Eddie’s turn.

“You gonna wear an eyepatch, Dr. K?” Richie asked, rolling onto his back so he could stare at him upside down.

“What? No.” Eddie peered down at him as Bill tried to fix the stitches across his cut. “I didn’t lose a fucking eye, dude.”

“So what you’re saying is you’re not going to be a sexy little pirate man?” he asked, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he grinned. “Arrrr.”

Eddie did nothing except raise an unimpressed eyebrow. “I wish you’d bit through your tongue.”

“Heyyy, unfair. Where else would you get such wondrous insight?”

“A raccoon.”

“Ugh, stop flirting, it’s sickening,” Beverly complained, but she was smiling. She climbed over Ben’s crossed legs and shouldered Bill out of the way. “Who’s idea was it to get the guy with suspected concussion to do Eddie’s dressings?”

“Yeah, you should get that checked out,” Stan said, wincing as Patty pressed a sodden cloth of antiseptic to his cut lip. “I mean, you did get-”

“Yeah, yeah, Stanley, someone threw me. Hysterical.”

Richie cracked a smile. “It’s pretty hysterical, Bill. You were used as a projectile weapon while the rest of us losers kicked some serious ass.”

“Uh, no,” Eddie corrected, as Beverly started to knit the skin on his brow back together with more finesse than Bill, “Bev, Stan, Mike and Ben kicked ass. You got floored by a single punch.”

“Yeah, from your clearly boxing-champion fiancée,” Richie defended, still grinning up at him. “She punched you too!”

“I was defending your honour, dickhead.”

“Aw, my honour and I are very grateful,” he said, wiggling a little. Eddie scoffed, but there was a smile there Richie wanted to reach out and touch. He tried, but his hand was slapped away by an irritated Beverly like he was trying to steal from the cookie jar. “Hey!”

“No tender touching until I’m done,” she chided, laying a few more stitches down.

Richie huffed. “Spoilsport.”

It still didn’t feel right, feeling this… okay. He was waiting for someone with a camera crew to jump out and say he’d been pranked. _“BUSTED! Eddie’s just an actor we hired for your whole life and he doesn’t actually love you, ya sad old loser!”_

The happiness was tentative and second-hand, maybe even rented. He would have it taken from him before too long, when he could no longer afford to pay it, and then he would be back at the start of the game board. But then he felt Eddie’s surprisingly light touch on his hair again, tracing small circles into a spot just above where his glasses sat on his ear. It was part of his nerves, how his hands always had to be moving. Well, Richie was happy to help with that. Eddie could play with his hair as much as he wanted. If this was the payment, Richie would be a millionaire.

Eddie was still wearing his dress shirt, though it was rumpled and untucked from his trousers. It fitted him nice. It fitted him _well_. He had rolled the sleeves to the elbows as soon as they got out the church, and Richie was kind of losing his mind about that. He’d practically seen him naked, had seen the guy orgasm – but those bare fucking forearms were doing things to him that definitely weren’t legal. “Hey,” he said softly, once Beverly moved away to get involved in takeout plans for later. Eddie looked down at him, one eye still hidden under the ice pack. Richie smiled. There he is. There’s my Eds. “Hey, so, um…”

“Richie,” he said. There was a warning to it, but Richie chose to ignore it.

“I put a lot of pressure on you back there, and uh… I just want you to know you can back out if you want.” A collective groan rose around them. “What?!”

“He literally said he loves you, moron,” Stan said, raking a hand through his hair.

“Please just kiss him Eddie, for all our sakes,” Ben said with a playful eye-roll. “And before Richie combusts.”

Richie jerked his head to stare up at Eddie’s deer-in-the-headlights expression. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, a pang of embarrassment shooting through him. He wanted Eddie to kiss him, obviously, but he wasn’t going to go and force hi-

Eddie’s hand on the back of his head and the press of his lips against Richie’s quickly silenced his racing thoughts. The cheers of their friends seemed to muffle and fade out as Eddie’s lips nudged insistently against his, asking, and Richie opened his mouth just a little, sighing into it. Eddie kissed him the way Richie had wanted to be kissed forever, reeling him in so his glasses almost cut into the bridge of his nose and they bumped heads a couple times, and Richie loved it. He loved _him._

He only pulled away when he felt his phone buzz angrily in his pocket, gritting his teeth. “Ugh, stupid phone.”

But Eddie moved back, his lips a little redder from the attention. “Take it, it’s okay. Unless you decide to do another of your vanishing acts on me, in which case it’s not fucking okay and I’ll be hunting your ass down.”

Richie got to his feet, smiling sheepishly. Yep, that he would allow. He would let them all hound him for that stupid decision, because he made it right again. Especially Eddie. It was his free fucking pass, and he hoped he would use it with caution. “Is that a promise?” he asked.

Eddie fixed him with a playful smirk. “You better fucking believe it is.”

Richie beamed at him, and checked his phone. He cringed. Steve. Oy.

Just before he answered though, Eddie gave him a smile. It wasn’t particularly special, but it dimpled his cheeks and made him look younger. Made him look like Eddie again. And that was what Richie held onto as he answered the call.

* * *

Richie was on the phone for a while. He slipped out of the room and into the hall with a parting smile, but Eddie still had to check once or twice to make sure he was still out there, phone pressed to his ear as he tried to placate the clearly angry person on the other end. It was stupid, pathetic even, to assume Richie would just up and leave again, not after what he’d said, but… it didn’t stop Eddie thinking it.

He fashioned a makeshift patch out of a small icepack, some wadding and bandages while he waited – he’d maybe gone on overdrive when he visited the pharmacy for materials, but you could never be too careful – and got Beverly to help him tie it around his eye. It wasn’t for any medical reason, but the truth was that he didn’t want everyone staring at it. Sure, everyone was pretty beat up, but no one had been socked in the fucking eye by their fiancée so he wanted some kind of dignity.

Beverly winced when she caught sight of it, but to her credit she continued wrapping him up like some kind of Civil War patient. At least it would keep his hands free to eat, and maybe Richie could make some more dumb jokes about it when he got back. Eddie wasn’t sure why he was looking forward to that, until he realised he would be hearing those jokes for as long as he liked, if he wanted that. And, to his surprise, he thought he did.

Richie was still out in the hall when the small mountain of pizza arrived. Eddie took his and opened the box, gazing in at the simple Margherita he’d ordered. He hadn’t eaten pizza for years, and only once or twice in New York. Myra didn’t like him to get takeout, would much rather cook a variety of steamed meats and vegetables for him instead, but Eddie had always spotted the pizza boxes crushed up small and hidden in the bottom of the recycling when he came back from business trips.

Taking a slice, he watched it peel off the cardboard loaded with grease – from the pizza itself or the cheese, he wasn’t sure. “ _Oh pizza is so bad for you, Eddiekins, and you know you have to watch your cholesterol intake,”_ Myra’s voice crooned in his memory. All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to eat this pizza. So he did, devouring three slices before he took so much as a breath. It was greasy. It had enough cheese to choke on. The tomato sauce was processed, and way more sugary than the sauces he used in pasta.

It was the best fucking thing Eddie had eaten for a long time.

But the grease was getting to him, so he excused himself and headed to the en-suite bathroom to wash his hands. Maybe he could fashion a napkin out of toilet paper, or he could call Room Service and ask for cutlery… is that the sort of thing this hotel could offer?

He was still thinking about it, hands stuck under the tap, when someone else pushed their way into the bathroom. “Gimme a minute,” Eddie said, not looking at the intruder as he scrubbed his hands. “I’ll just be-”

“Knew you couldn’t get through a whole pizza without coming to wash off, you filthmonger.”

Eddie slammed the tap off. Richie. He turned to see him put his phone back in his pocket, smiling slightly. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Richie gestured to the eyepatch. “Can I see?”

Eddie tensed. “Why would I let you see?”

“Because you’re not letting anyone else see and I get you’re a big strong man who don’t need no help, but I might be able to reassure you you’re not dying.”

Eddie huffed. He had him there.

Richie approached him like he was heading for a wounded animal he’d found on the side of the road, keeping his hands where Eddie could see them. He was still so nervous about touching him, still so careful about what Eddie would want. _Man_ , Eddie thought to himself, _Richie’s been really fucked up._ The thought made him sad. It was this thought that made him reach out and take Richie’s hands, guiding them to the bandages he and Beverly had haphazardly tied around his head. “Your turn to be doctor,” he said, quirking a smile.

Richie offered him a small smile of thanks for trusting him, and began to unwind the bandages. “Shit, it’s like unwrapping a mummy,” he commented.

“Thanks,” Eddie said dryly, “that makes me feel really attractive.”

“Sexy mummy.”

“Uh huh.”

“The _sexiest._ ”

“How much sleep did you get exactly?”

“Not enough, Eds. Never enough.”

When he unwrapped the last layer and peeled back the wadding, Eddie opened the eye. Richie let out a low whistle. “Shiner,” he remarked. “And you got, uh… got a little…”

“What?” Eddie turned to look in the mirror – and stopped short. His eye, aside from the swelling around it and the beginnings of a sickly yellow bruise forming, had a haze of bright crimson bleeding across the white. He swallowed painfully. Okay. Okay, that was fine. It looked bad but it was just a burst blood vessel. A subconjunctival haemorrhage. The word ‘haemorrhage’ made everything seem scarier than it really was, but Eddie had read enough medical journals to know better. It would be fine. It would take two weeks to heal, tops. He didn’t need to take anything.

He took a deep breath, let it out and said, “Oh,” in a squeak.

“It’s very metal,” Richie said, and he shifted his gaze away from the eye to see Richie looming over him, his arms wrapping around his waist and hugging him to his chest. “Defending me like that. Giving your fiancée the out she didn’t deserve before she punched you in the fucking face. Pretty badass of you, Eddie Kaspbrak, Risk Analyst that Nothing Cool Ever Happens To.”

“And who do I have to thank for that?” Eddie asked, craning his neck to look at Richie for real instead of his reflection. The real Richie was warm, was smiling at him as he reached up to plant a tentative kiss on the underside of his jaw. He was real. He wasn’t going anywhere. “Moron,” he added tenderly, for good measure.

Richie grinned. “What can I say, Eds? I make your life interesting.”

“You make my life better,” he corrected.

“Yeah.” Richie nuzzled his face into the side of his neck. “So you said.”

Eddie let his eyes slide shut as he focused on Richie’s breath dancing along his skin, breathing new life into him as they stood there, decidedly not looking in the mirror. But when the questions started rising to the surface, Eddie lazily plucked one out of the air before it faded. “Was that your manager?”

Richie huffed out a laugh against his neck and pulled away, retreating to the bathtub he then leant against. “Uh, yeah, that was Steve.” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He was pretty pissed. Apparently good news travels fast.”

Eddie frowned, bracing himself against the sink. “What do you-?”

“Crashing a wedding and confessing my undying love for another man isn’t something that just goes away, apparently.”

A chill stole through him at that. How could it have gotten to Steve, a guy who lived on the other side of the country? “It happened two hours ago,” he said, a little faintly.

“Yeah, but two hours is like… two weeks in showbiz time.” Richie shrugged. “It’s got to Steve’s oversized ears and he’s running damage control. To say I’m in trouble is…uhhhh something of an understatement.” He was still beaming, like this was one of those ‘I’m in trouble’s Richie fucking loved. Eddie was still trying to keep his margherita pizza down in his stomach. “He said he wants to frame it as a publicity stunt, but I… I told him it was real and I wanted to keep it that way. Hope you don’t mind.” He grinned. “I basically just came out to the whole of LA, Eds. I’m public knowledge.”

Eddie breathed. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you… okay?”

Richie’s grin widened. “Probably going to have a breakdown at some point, but for now I’m good.”

“Yeah?” Eddie gulped and moved closer, taking hold of his shirt and drawing him in close. He wasn’t sure how to do this. He wasn’t good at manoeuvring people, it wasn’t his forte, but he saw Richie’s grin soften and he knew he was doing okay. They were both a little unsure, a little careful, but that was okay. They could take their time.

“Yeah,” Richie answered, biting his lip as he looked him up and down. That single motion fired tingles, like pins and needles, down Eddie’s spine. “I’m better than good. I’m great.”

“Because I’m here?” Eddie pressed, knowing he was being an idiot but he had to hear it in Richie’s own mouth. He had to know.

Richie nodded. “Because you’re here. And I love you, and I am freaking out just a little because I really didn’t think you loved me until I got your letter and that phone and I got on the first plane outta LAX I could catch that wasn’t delayed by like four hours and-”

“Rich.” Eddie smoothed his hands up Richie’s sides, drawing them up to his collar and looping them around his neck. “Do me a favour?”

“Yeah?”

“Beep beep. Just for a little while.”

Richie smiled. “That… that I think I can do.”

When Eddie kissed him, it felt more real than the one he’d started in the room beyond with all their friends cheering him on like they were at a football game. With no one to watch, to judge, Eddie let himself sink the way he’d wanted to since he’d kissed Richie the first time, out on the shoreline of the lake. He traced the line of Richie’s lips with his tongue, teeth grazing his lower lip and biting it carefully before drawing it into his mouth to suckle. Richie let a breathy moan loose in Eddie’s own mouth and chased for more, pressing their bodies close as Eddie threaded his fingers through his hair and gently pulled, moving Richie around to fit the kiss better. The fact Richie’s knees nearly buckled at the whole thing made Eddie take a mental note to file away.

_Richie Tozier likes having his hair pulled and you can remember that because you will have plenty of opportunity to try that out._

He took a step back, pulling Richie with him, and lifted himself up onto the bathroom counter in a single, remarkably agile, move. Richie smiled into the kiss – Eddie could feel it, feel the stretch of his mouth as he grinned like a fucking nerd and he loved that – and slipped a hand under the cool dress shirt, but he didn’t try to move it up to grope his chest, or down to tease around the edge of his boxers. He just let it stay there, a large hand against Eddie’s warm stomach, and Eddie wondered if Richie was feeling the same way he was. That he just wanted to bottle the moment, like he had with the tree and the lake and the Mustang and the night; all of these little moments, drifting along just waiting to be grabbed.

When he broke the kiss, gasping for breath, Eddie felt brave again. He rested his forehead against Richie’s, savouring the contact, and said, “You didn’t give me what you wanted to in the church.”

“Eddie, my love, there’s plenty of things I want to give to y-”

“Beep fucking beep, you know what I mean.” Eddie leaned away. “Do you still have it?”

Richie paused, before digging around in his pockets. He brought it out with a quiet yet triumphant cheer, presenting it to Eddie like it was precious gold. It might not have been gold, Eddie thought as he gazed at the thirty year old pipecleaner Ring of Power, but it meant more than that. Eddie shook his head with a smile. “Still can’t believe you kept it.”

“I guess I was waiting to give it back,” Richie said, looking at it too as the turned it around in his fingers. “Long-term loan, and all that.”

“Did you mean it?” When Richie looked back at him, Eddie couldn’t see a trace of fear. “That you’d… that you’d like to…”

“Yeah. Yeah I did, Eds.” Richie’s smile nearly broke him, tears welling to the surface. But Eddie was determined not to break down and cry in a hotel bathroom because Richie wanted to marry him someday. Richie, apparently, had less problem with that, as he was crying pretty much instantly.

“I want… oh, what was it…” He pretended to think for a moment, grabbing some tissue to blow his nose, before he put on a watery, high-pitched squeak of a voice that Eddie knew was meant to be him at thirteen. “I want to live with you, and eat whatever I want, sleep whenever I want…”

“You’re an ass.”

He choked on a laugh. “But you love it enough to wanna put a ring on it.”

Eddie smiled. “Eventually. I’m not getting engaged the day I was going to get married in a hotel bathroom, with our friends in the other room eating the most unhealthy pizza I’ve ever put in my body. Gotta pick your moment, Tozier.”

“Okay, okay, point taken.” Richie choked back a sob, a happy one. “So I guess you don’t want…?”

“Oh fuck no, give it here.” He moved for the ring, but Richie’s palm closed around it.

He wagged a finger at him. “Uh uh uh,” he sniffled, the tears rolling freely down his face, “gotta do it properly.”

“You are so lucky I love you, you big baby,” Eddie groused playfully as he held out his hand. Richie fiddled with the ring for a moment, making it a little bigger, and then slid it onto his ring finger with the utmost care. His hands were trembling a little. Eddie didn’t tease him for it.

“Believe me, Eds, I know,” Richie said, and it was so sincere that Eddie really had to bite down to stop himself from crying too.

Once they got themselves together and headed out the door, the other Losers set up a sarcastic round of applause. “You better not have had sex in there, that’s our bathroom to have sex in,” Stan said, whilst Patty blushed into his collar.

Eddie simply raised his hand in answer, the faded green pipecleaner raising a raucous of shouts and cheers and “holy shit you don’t take long”s to rise up from them all.

Eddie kissed Richie again, the salt of their tears mingling together, and sat back down to finish off the pizza. He kept looking down at his hand, though, the ring so garishly obvious and ugly it was difficult to ignore. But there was a giddy flutter in his stomach every time he looked, every time he saw Richie looking and smiling to himself, and he couldn’t stop smiling either.

Because, no, it wasn’t a wedding ring like he expected to be staring down at by the end of the day, but it was a promise of _eventually_ , of _someday_. He was happy with someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the epilogue and I honestly cannot believe I finished a whole fic in this UK lockdown I would like to thank the academy for this honour


	16. Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak have an Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here it is folks! End of the line! I'll leave all the sap for the end notes, but thank you all for reading! 
> 
> We skip forward to one whole year later, and we're back in familiar surroundings. Quite a bit has changed since then, though some things remain the same...
> 
> I now have a new side account purely for fic stuff, so hit me up on @monoclepony, comment and genuinely enjoy this - it's a labour of love and it's finally done!

_One year later._

It was an uncharacteristically warm summer in Derry. Everything hummed and shimmered in a heat that hadn’t existed there for quite some time. Everyone sweated. Everyone complained. Just outside the city limits (about half an hour away, in fact), there was some kind of respite with the shade of the forests and a sudden summer downpour that fell in large, warm drops.

Out on the porch of a lone lakehouse Richie Tozier sat in one of the wooden chairs, nursing a glass of wine. It was a little early but fuck it – he was on vacation. There was never a bad time for a drink. Wine was a new addition to his palate, granted, but there was something about the rain that made him want it over a beer. He’d folded himself up in the seat in a position that was sure to be hell on his joints later on, but that was a problem for Future Richie. Present Richie wanted to focus on nothing more than the tartness of the red wine and the patter of rain.

It was the same lakehouse from the year before, the same porch and the same view. But so much had changed in the in-between. He’d never imagined it would come to this, all the madness of the past 52 weeks leading up to this one. The wedding, the crash, what he had to deal with afterwards. And now the peace. The quiet. Well, almost.

Being out had its challenges – there were still the die-hard homophobes who retracted offers or turned down suggestions whenever he was involved – but it also meant being able to sidle away from the Trashmouth mould he’d been pressed into for so many years and into someone… different. Someone new. New wasn’t as scary a word anymore. He didn’t want to up sticks and bolt whenever it was mentioned now. At least, not _all_ the time.

His eyes wandered to his phone on the little side table next to him. He hesitated, took a gulp of wine and picked it up. He found the contact ‘ _Eddie Spaghetti’_ and tapped the side of his glass, thinking. Before he could change his mind, he dialled. Leaning back into his chair, he bit his lip as he listened to the tone drone on and on. All those hours he’d spent on the end of this phone, alcohol flooding his system and that ache – that fucking _ache_ – that opened like a chasm whenever it clicked to voicemail. This time when it reached voicemail, he sighed. Sometimes he wondered. He hoped. When the line beeped, he took a moment before he spoke.

“Hey, Eddie. Long time no speak, eh? Bev said she’s going to get to this place in an hour or so with Ben. It’ll be like old times – almost. You’re so far away from me now, and I can’t get to you.” He sighed. “You know. After the accident.” A beep on the line made him falter. “Uh, h-hang on, I got another call coming in.” He hung up and answered the other call. “Yes?”

“I’m literally in the bedroom you dramatic bitch, stop clogging up my inbox,” came the familiar grouse down the line.

Richie cracked a smile. “Aw Eddie-baby, you threw me off my stroke. I was just going to mourn your loss over death by Ass-Too-Bomb.”

“Keep dreaming for that Tony and it might happen,” was the dry response.

“You didn’t disagree,” Richie noted, sinking into his chair.

“About – ow, _motherfucker –_ about what?” Eddie sounded preoccupied. That wasn’t going to excuse him.

“About my ass being too bomb,” Richie clarified, biting his tongue between his teeth in a smirk no one could see.

“Oh. That.” Eddie said it so matter-of-factly, like he wouldn’t have turned into a flustered mess a couple of months ago. “That’s cus I don’t – augh, for _fuck’s_ sake, c’mere – don’t disagree.”

Richie grinned. “About what, dear Edward?”

“Seriously?” He imagined Eddie stood in the middle of the bedroom – their bedroom – with his hands on his hips, glaring at the phone. It was always on speaker. Eddie didn’t like walking around with it on his shoulder. It made Richie wiggle happily, like some kind of lovestruck teenager. “You’re gonna make me say it?”

“Yes please.”

A long-suffering sigh rumbled through the phone. “Richard Tozier, your ass is too bomb.”

Richie cheered as Eddie muttered, “fucking hell,” down the line. He was happy. He was so goddamn happy. It scared him at first; feeling so weightless wasn’t something he’d actually experienced past the age of 12, and feeling like he deserved it, like somehow he managed to earn this happiness, took longer. He was getting there, slowly. “Wish I could record that so I could set it as your text alert.”

This was usually when Eddie would beep him or tell him to shut the fuck up, but instead Eddie replied, “then maybe I should record you waxing poetic about the shape of my dick,” without missing a beat, sending Richie into a bout of choking laughter.

“Get out here,” he said, “so you can haze me in person.”

“I will, once I – ugn – get this – agh – fucking thing on.”

“Kinky.”

“Shut up. Gotcha!” the sound of a clip announced Eddie’s success to Richie without him having to say it. “Alright, alright, I’m coming out, Jesus. Brace yourself.”

Richie hung up as the door opened out onto the porch, spilling out a gigantic hairball with a lead attached. “Dandy!” he called, delighted, as said ginger furball stalked towards him looking even grumpier than usual in his bright green harness. Attached to the other end of his leash was – well, Eddie. His hair was fluffy and thick without proper grooming, the way Richie liked it, and as he was pulled closer Richie recognised one of his own shirts underneath the black zip up hoodie Eddie was wearing. Eddie wouldn’t be seen dead looking like this outside their apartment, but here he’d made an excellent exception to the rule.

Richie softened, reaching out a hand for him the way he always did. Eddie smiled and came to him, wordlessly sliding his hand onto Richie’s and entangling their fingers. “Hey,” Richie said stupidly.

“Hey,” Eddie replied. “You ever gonna stop sending my old phone voicemails?”

“Only once the dramatic irony has totally dried up,” Richie answered with a self-satisfied grin. Eddie rolled his eyes and leaned in, pressing a small kiss to his lips. Richie held on, hand moving up to keep Eddie there, just so he could feel those lips, that warmth, a bit longer. Eddie broke it with a sigh, and in the space between them lovingly whispered, “I wish I never sent you that fucking phone.”

“Ah, but dear Eduardo,” Richie said, “if you didn’t, I wouldn’t have come to New York.”

“You’d have come to New York,” Eddie huffed, like the very thought of him not turning up at the wedding and turning everything inside out was a stupid one. “My letter would have been far more persuasive.”

“Yeah, okay, keep telling yourself tha- OW DANDY WHY.”

Dandelion had used that exact moment to leap onto Richie’s lap and attempt to scale his chest. Unfortunately, Dandelion had decided that claws were needed for such a feat of athleticism.

Eddie retreated, placing the cat’s leash in Richie’s hand as he dragged another chair closer. “Your fucking cat’s a demon,” he commented, but he said it the same way he complained about Richie trying to fondle him whilst he was washing up. It was said with love.

“You were the one who said he was the reincarnation of a Victorian street thug. You _know_ he’s a Viking.” Richie scratched Dandelion behind the ears in payment of the climb and grinned as the cat turned his attention to Eddie. He swore the cat actually _scowled._ “Oh no, is Eddie in Dandy’s bad books today?” he cooed at him.

“Well, I put his harness on _and_ kicked him out of our room last night,” Eddie said as he sat down beside Richie, “so he’s definitely plotting something. A light maiming, probably.”

“Oh _bad_ Eddie,” Richie murmured into Dandelion’s fur. “Nasty Eddie, putting Dandy out in the cold on his lonesome.”

“He’s in the house!” Eddie defended, playing along. “I bought him a heated bed last week because he didn’t stop yelling!”

“Oh, jail for Eddie, jail for a thousand years…”

“Excuse me if I don’t want him watching us have sex.”

Richie managed to extricate Dandelion’s claws from his shirt and lifted him up above his head with a grunt of effort. Dandelion went bonelessly floppy as he was held aloft, Richie’s mouth open in mock horror. “Is that true? Dandy, you disgraceful peeper!”

Dandelion hissed and tried to swipe him, but Richie dodged it.

“You know he does it,” Eddie chipped in, frowning up at the prone cat. “It’s like he has a fucking sixth sense, dude, he only has to hear me taking off my shirt or you roll over and he’s there like a shot, staring with that squashy face of his. Shit’s weird.”

“Oh nooooo, does Dandy want to watch Eddie plough Daddy into the mattress?” Richie wiggled the now lazily struggling cat in his grasp. “Does Dandy like seeing Daddy beg for it? Does he?”

“Oh my god, stop, don’t talk about our fucking sex lives in front of him.”

Richie grinned and released Dandelion, who let out a huff of indignation at his treatment and opted for Eddie’s lap instead, squinting up at him in a silent order for attention. Apparently he’d been briefly forgiven. Eddie obeyed almost subconsciously, to Richie’s amusement. He loved how whipped Eddie was for their cat; the first time he walked into the LA apartment and caught sight of Dandelion systematically ripping up a newspaper, the “holy shit did a possum mate with a bag of Cheetos?” comment wasn’t the best introduction. When Dandelion chose Eddie’s chest at his pillow for the evening for the first time, however, Eddie’s starry-eyed smile made Richie certain that, like it or not, Dandelion was their child and the shelter would never get him back. Eddie loved Dandelion almost as much as he loved Richie. Sometimes more.

“So, that’s the safety harness huh?” Richie asked, pointing to the contraption looped around Dandelion’s shoulders and forelegs.

Eddie nodded. “No escapes like last time. The local birds, mice and wolves are safe.”

“Keeping on Staniel’s good side is always best.” Richie hesitated. “Hey Eds?” When he was sure Eddie was paying more attention to him rather than Dandelion, he said the one thing that had been buzzing around his mind for a while. It was a passing thought most of the time, since he was too busy to really sit down and think about it for too long, but now they were away from it all it found time to linger and take root. He frowned, even as he said it. “Do you… regret anything?”

Eddie stared blankly at him. “I hope you don’t mean about us?”

“Uh…”

“Because I am honestly surprised you can walk far enough to get out here and I had to clean every surface before the others came because I’ve fucked you on them all-”

“Except the breakfast bar,” Richie corrected, unable to help himself. That had been glorious; Eddie led on it, practically flush against the top as Richie took his time taking him apart, edging him until he begged, Eddie’s heels hooked at his hips and drawing him in deeper, harder…

“Y-yeah, except that,” Eddie said, and Richie spotted the flush of colour rising in his cheeks. “So why would I do that if I regret anything?”

“People like to have hobbies!” When Eddie gave him an unimpressed glower, Richie shrugged. “Well, you didn’t like LA to start with…”

“I hated the driving, Rich, that’s it. LA is actually very nice.”

“You had to change jobs…”

“The LA office is way more relaxed than the New York one, and I actually have proper work friends now.”

“And Myra threw loads of your shit onto a pile and set it on fire and my friends are a bit much and…”

“Richie.” Eddie looked so sternly at him that Richie knew he was going to mean what he was about to say. “I have a cat on me so I can’t move but if I could I would be holding your big dumb face in my hands and calling you the biggest dumbass in a 10 mile radius.” He petted Dandelion absentmindedly, smiling a little at the loud purr he received for his efforts. “I don’t regret leaving New York, I don’t regret moving in with you and I don’t regret leaving Myra and becoming part of your comedy posse.” He levelled his gaze, staring right into Richie’s fucking soul with those eyes of his. “I don’t regret falling in love with you.”

Richie’s mouth went dry. “Oh. Okie dokie then.”

This new Eddie, Out Eddie, was stark, candid, honest. He never failed to say exactly what he was thinking the moment it arrived in his head, like having to keep everything contained for so long was now backfiring wonderfully. He was more confident around Richie now, handling him like something precious but not breakable.

It had taken some time, but Richie was sure that if he could go back and tell his age-appropriate self that he had been solidly loved (read: fucked) by Eddie Kaspbrak for hours and been told he was not only the hottest thing he’d ever seen but he was worthy of being _loved_ , he definitely wouldn’t be believed. That was just the sort of shit that never happened to closeted small-town kids with buck teeth and huge glasses.

Well, suck it fate: it happened to this one.

“What about you?” Eddie asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Mm?”

“Any regrets?”

Richie gazed over at him, his Eddie, and saw he was serious. He leant over to grab his hand, fingers skimming across the knuckles and imperfections he found there. “Aside from the obvious?”

The Obvious. The note he left that morning, in this place. The note they had ceremoniously burned together drunk a week after the wedding and set off all the smoke alarms in Bev’s apartment. The one that Eddie repeatedly told him didn’t matter anymore.

When Eddie nodded to indicate Richie wasn’t off the hook that easy, he sighed. “Okay. Wish I kissed you out here on the porch. When we were dancing.” He brought Eddie’s hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, decided he could put his mouth to better use than something as stupid as talking. He spoke anyway, mumbling it against his knuckles like a secret. “That would’ve been the more… I dunno. It would’ve made more sense. In the film they will inevitably make of our lives.”

“Hey, I tried,” Eddie pointed out gently.

“You were drunk, and I didn’t know you liked me. There was no way I’d make the first move.”

“Then you wouldn’t kiss me. Even if you did invent a time machine or some shit, it’s a logical impossibility if you went back not knowing what you know now-”

“You asked, I answered!”

Eddie uncurled his hand and let it trace the contours of his face, no doubt mapping it all in his mind. Richie closed his eyes and leant into the touch, purring like Dandelion. “Wanna try again?” Eddie asked.

Richie cracked an eye open. “Now?”

His answer was the opening few piano notes of that slow, soft song from a year ago. Richie opened both eyes to see Eddie put down his phone, take the leash from Richie and tie it to the chair before standing up and relinquishing his seat to Dandelion. “Come on,” he said, holding his hand out to him, “We don’t need a time machine. I’m giving you one do-over.”

Richie took a gulp of wine and took his hand, letting himself get pulled up by Eddie’s surprising strength. Suddenly he was the shy kid again, on the sidelines of all the school dances, who never got asked onto the floor unless it was with Beverly. As Eddie stepped back, leading Richie with him, he couldn’t help the conscious laugh that escaped. “We were way more drunk last time we tried this,” he said.

Eddie laughed too. “Yeah. Only way I’d let myself get close to you.” He moved Richie’s hands down to his waist, a spot that had basically become their home lately, and Richie had to remind himself that yes, this was allowed, he could touch Eddie however he liked because Eddie _said so._ “I bet we’d be better now,” he added, sliding his own hands up Richie’s body and linking them around his neck. The mere movement made Richie lean forward, but Eddie jerked his face away. “Nope. C’mon Rich, do it properly.”

Richie whined. “Eddiiieeeeee…” Eddie nearly stamped on his foot, but Richie skipped out of the way with a triumphant “HA”.

“Just do it. You’re the romantic one.”

“Hell yeah I am. I romance the shit outta you.”

“Better put your money where your mouth is, Trashmouth,” he sniped. And then he started to sway.

Richie moved with him, staring down at his feet like he was at some high school dance and he didn’t want to step out of line, but it became second nature once Eddie rested his head on his chest. He dropped his head to prop his chin on top of Eddie’s hair which usually got him a playful scold, but this time Eddie’s grip on him just tightened. He just listened to the drumming of the rain on the porch roof, the feel of Eddie against him and around him, and let himself fall the way he’d done so many times since he burst through those church doors. But now he wasn’t falling blind – he knew there was someone waiting to help him stick the landing.

“This is our dance,” Eddie murmured somewhere near his collarbone.

“Hm?”

“This… swaying thing. It’s our dance. Thought about that for a while.” Eddie sighed. “Dumb, huh?”

“No. It’s sweet.”

Eddie huffed like that settled things, and pressed a small kiss to the base of his throat. “See what I mean?”

“You’ve lost me, Eds.”

Another huff. “We can try again. There will be other dances, Rich. Other sways like this, out on a lakehouse porch. Don’t need to go back in time to change things because I’ll… I’ll do it again and again. With you. Because I want to.”

Richie wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. He was a stone pillar, he would not crumble, he would not fall-

“I love you so fucking much, you dickwad.”

-okay he was jello he was slush he was silly putty.

“Oh, Rich,” Eddie said fondly. He rose on his toes to kiss him, brushing away the tears he found there with his thumbs. Richie just wrapped his arms tight around him and pulled Eddie flush against him, keeping the kiss soft.

When he broke away, he sniffled and rubbed his eyes. “God, I love you too Eds, holy shit you cannot be nice to me ever.”

“I called you a dickwad.”

“Maybe ‘dickwad’ can be our ‘always’.”

“Oh you did _not_ just quote the cancer book at me.”

“Only a little.”

Eddie’s gaze shifted behind Richie then. “Hey. Rain’s stopped.”

So it had. The forest smelt fresher now, bathed in a dewy glow as sunlight returned. “Let’s go exercise Dandy,” Eddie said, “before the others get here.”

Richie frowned. “They won’t be that long.”

“And neither will we, unless he sees that Labrador again.”

“I have it on good authority that Labrador will be coming nowhere near us again.”

Eddie kissed him again, drawing it out. “I’ll get changed.” He drew back to the door, giving Richie a passing smile as he went. Richie watched him go, his heart full and the desire to go after him and help him undress quicker burning in him, but he held back. Eddie was right: they had time.

* * *

‘Exercising’ Dandelion was no mean feat. It was a two man job; one actually held the leash, ready to be yanked forward or smacked into a tree, and the other was a spotter to make sure 2 tons of angry cat wasn’t about to come screaming from the sky. This time (like most times) Richie was Leash Holder and Eddie was Spotter. Eddie had better eyesight and Richie had thicker skin – or so he said – so it worked. They fitted. Another thing about them that just…worked. Eddie found more and more of those every day.

Since he left New York, he hadn’t really looked back. A few days after the wedding, he went back to pack some stuff together and found most of it a smouldering pile of ash outside on the lawn. Myra was many things, and ‘efficient’ was apparently one of them. But like a phoenix, all he’d done was rise.

He grabbed what he could, phoned his office and then he was on his way back to the hotel room. To Richie. And to the bed they didn’t leave for three days. It wasn’t just sex either, though that was phenomenal now Eddie actually knew he could enjoy it for multiple reasons; they also ate room service in bed, something he would never have dreamed of doing at any point in his life before, and stayed up just talking and laughing. Making up for the time he’d lost – _they’d_ lost.

It was as though all the little moments in his life could be compartmentalised into Before Richie and After Richie, and the After Richie moments were looking very positive indeed. There were still plenty of things that could and would go wrong, but they were risks Eddie was willing to take. He didn’t have time to dwell on the Before Richie moments – it was these moments, the After Richie moments, that he was interested in. A future with Richie in it. It scarcely seemed possible. But here they were, walking in the woods hand in hand like they’d been doing it all their lives. Maybe Adrian was right – they were made for one another.

Adrian was one of the other additions to Eddie’s new LA life, and he hadn’t expected the warm welcome he’d got from Richie’s barista-turned-friend. Adrian had actually screamed at the sight of him coming into the coffee shop with Richie and pulled him into a hug over the counter, tight enough to cut off his airways. “He does this,” Richie reassured him as Adrian wailed about how handsome Eddie was like he was some sort of long-lost aunt. “I thought we’d be safer if we came to his place of work, but I was obviously mistaken.” He had to hand it to the kid, though, he knew what he was talking about. He had a good head on his shoulders. As they walked, Eddie got a text from him.

[From: Adrian Mellon, Sent: 16:44]  
 _\- Hey so uh is ur tall handsome Idris Elba looking friend single askin 4 a friend_

Eddie snorted and fired back a response.

[To: Adrian Mellon, Sent: 16:46]  
\- _Won’t Don be jealous?  
\- And that’s Mike, he’s been living with our other friend Bill for the past six months so work that one out._

“Who you texting?” Richie asked as they stopped to let Dandelion maul an unsuspecting log.

“Ade. He found Mike’s social media presence and he’s salivating.”

Richie snorted. “Oh puh-lease, Mike is so out of his league. Did you tell him that Bill has 100% called dibs on that?”

“I… inferred that was the case.” Eddie sniffed. “Anyway, don’t push them. They’ll get there on their own.”

“Like we did?”

Eddie huffed. “Okay, fine, but that was mainly Bev. We are not meddling. We would not be good meddlers.”

“I’d argue with that, but it literally took you almost getting married for me to get my head out my ass, so. Maybe we should leave it to the professiona – oookay we are moving we are MOVING.” Dandelion took off and Richie went with him, flailing madly like a string tied to a very hefty balloon. Eddie laughed and followed behind, stopping when he received another text to read it properly.

[From: Adrian Mellon, Sent: 16:53]  
- _Don was the one who asked! U think theyd be into polyamory, asking for multiple frhushuydsgftdyf  
\- Don here, please ignore my awful boyfriend.   
\- Does he have any idea?_

Eddie bit his lip around a smile.

[To: Adrian Mellon, Sent: 16:54]  
\- _I don’t think so._

“Eddie, help!” Richie called, panicked, “he’s gone up a tree!”

Eddie pocketed his phone and jogged over to get Dandelion free. He only took one photo of the extremely disgruntled squashed face before he saw him wiggle. “CAT,” he announced, and Dandelion leapt into his arms with a yowl. Once he put him back down with a few more scratches to add to the collection, he asked as casually as he could muster, “Hey, can we go see the memory tree?”

They were at the right spot. Just a turn off the beaten path and Eddie was sure he could get them there. Or Richie could.

Richie raised a brow. “The memory tree? Shit, I forgot I showed you that.”

He hadn’t forgotten. Eddie knew he hadn’t. He brought it up a couple of times since. “Can we?” Eddie pressed.

“It’s so laaaame,” Richie whined. “Nothing will have changed, it’s just some tree.”

“Yeah well maybe it’s the tree that made me realise I had to have you in my life?” Eddie suggested. Richie choked on air as he continued, “We won’t take long. Just a quick look, c’mon. I… I want to take a picture. So we can show the others.”

Richie pursed his lips, weighing up the sentimental aspect and the potential of being late for everyone’s arrival. When he smiled, Eddie knew the sentiment won out: it always did. “After you, Eds. But if Dandy uses it as a scratching post you have nobody but yourself to blame.”

“Noted. Come on,” Eddie said, and took his hand again before setting off through the trees. Dandelion made an enquiring chirp as he realised they weren’t going their usual way, and delighted in chasing a few loose leaves around the floor. Richie squeezed his hand, and Eddie squeezed back with a smile.

Richie always wanted to be touching him, holding him; at first Eddie assumed it was because he was reassuring himself that he _could,_ that Eddie was still there and he wasn’t going anywhere, but he then realised Richie was just like that. It became second nature. Richie would put his arms around his middle and hug him from behind when he brushed his teeth, knock his head into his shoulder when he laughed. Richie had always liked touch, craved it even, but Eddie had never been aware of just how much. He liked it. It made him feel wanted. Loved. Treasured. He’d never been treasured before.

“Which way now?” he asked as they reached the brook.

“You don’t remember?” Richie sighed theatrically. “Honestly Eds, you call yourself an explorer.”

“I have literally never once called myself that.”

“It’s _this_ way, let’s go.”

Eddie smiled and let Richie lead the way.

The clearing was a little more overgrown than it had been when they had been there last, but the tree was still standing, dappled silver in the light breaking through the branches of the trees encircling it. It you looked hard enough, it could be magic, the way Mike had described it all those years ago when they were old enough to know better but young enough to still hope.

“Here!” Richie said with a grin, dropping Eddie’s hand to get closer.

Eddie hung back, his heart beginning to thud rapidly in his chest as Richie looked it over the way he had the last time, one hand skimming over the trunk as he looked at all the initials and names of people who had wanted to be remembered so much they carved their names which anything sharp.

“Found us yet?” Eddie asked, sticking a hand in his pocket as he waited.

“Yep, here we are!” Richie answered, hunching over to see a little better. “Bit faded, we need to re-cut it.”

“Uh huh, anything else?”

“No, what do you- hey wait, something new!” Richie laughed. “Hey, another R + E! What are the odds?”

“Weird.” Okay, Eddie’s blood pressure was skyrocketing now. “Does it… does it say anything else?”

“Yeah! It says ‘Will you’-” Richie went very quiet.

“Rich,” Eddie urged, his mouth dry and his pulse roaring in his ears, “What does it say?”

Richie’s shoulders shook. “I-it says, uh-” he gulped noisily.

“Yeah?”

“It says, ‘Will you marry me’?”

By the time Richie turned around, Eddie was on one knee and terrified.

This was different to before; with Myra it wasn’t planned, not even wanted, and he hadn’t got a ring or done it properly. But this was real, so real it was burning up in his veins. He was scared because he didn’t want to mess it up. He wanted to do it properly. He was _going_ to do it properly.

Richie’s hands were in front of his face, eyes creased as he tried so hard to keep his emotions in check, and that got Eddie talking. “You – you can cry, it’s okay.”

Richie made a strangled noise and shook his head.

Eddie raised a brow. “No? You don’t want to marry me?” He smiled weakly, hopefully. “You haven’t heard my pitch yet.”

“No!” Richie burst out. “N-no, no, I mean I didn’t want to cry, fuckin’… go ahead with your pitch.”

Eddie swallowed painfully. “I, uh, had to write it down.” With that, he brought out a set of flashcards, which somehow made Richie more emotional.

“Oh fuck, you have cue cards,” he sobbed. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A while. Are you gonna let me do this before I get stuck down here?” he gestured to his knees.

Richie laughed through his tears and nodded vehemently. Eddie took another breath. “Okay. Okay.” He tried to keep his eyes on Richie – the tall, lanky mess of a man he loved so much it hurt, with broad shoulders shaking under the pressure of holding himself together – and began, stopping only to check his flashcards.

“Rich, I’ve known you practically all my life. The moment Bill introduced us, I knew it was the biggest fucking mistake he ever made. Because we were obnoxious together. You know we were. We drove all our friends crazy with the arguments and the playfights and everything else attached to that. You had this way of attracting attention, good or bad, and I guess I fell into that too. You made me crazy too. A good crazy. I just knew that whatever I did, I had to have you next to me to do it.”

He took a breath. God, this sounded way better when he wrote it down. Richie didn’t add any commentary, so he carried on.

“It takes a lot for me to want something, you know that. My mom, she… she never let me want anything, because wanting something and not getting it hurt too much. But one thing I’ve always wanted is you, Rich. I wanted you then, and I want you now.”

He glanced at his cards, more of a nervous twitch than anything else. He knew this. He’d read them over and over, memorised them, but he had to be sure he got it right.

“You’ve been my stress nightmare, the pain in my ass – don’t fucking joke about that – and I’ve said I wanted to kill you many, many times. But you’re also my rock, and you make me laugh even when I’m in the worst fucking mood imaginable, and you… you’re like what coming home feels like.” He blinked back his own tears, the way he had when he was compiling it all.

“Mom was right, in some ways. It did hurt to want you so much. When I said that stuff in my tree, in the back of my house, I meant it about you – I just didn’t let myself know it then. You’re my favourite fucking person, Richie Tozier, and all that hurt was worth it to be with you right now. I want you to be my favourite fucking person forever, a-and I know it’s soon, and I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, but you said you’d wait until I was ready and I am, so…”

He dropped the flashcards and pulled out a ringbox, opening it with shaking fingers. He’d checked the size a thousand times, made sure it was the right kind of dark silver so it didn’t look cheap when it really, really wasn’t. Richie’s eyes were locked on the box, on the ring, and Eddie steeled himself for the next few words.

“Richie Tozier, will you marry me?” He paused. “For the tax benefits.”

Richie’s hands came down from his face. He wasn’t a pretty cryer; he fell apart like a wall that had been on its last legs anyway, or a dam that burst its banks and flooded without warning. But it made Eddie blink away that tears that itched at the corners of his eyes too, because it meant it was real.

“Yes,” Richie croaked, his voice wrecked. “Y-yeah, Eds, fuck, I’ll marry you, holy shit. I’ll marry you a hundred times.”

Eddie laughed weakly. “I don’t think I could afford that, so… is just the one okay?”

“Yes, ugh, god yes, yes, yes,” Richie sobbed.

Okay, this was Eddie’s cue. He got up and before he could even fumble the ring onto his finger Richie was tugging him close and kissing him, sliding a hand into his hair as he deepened it with another final sob. Eddie hummed happily into his mouth, and pulled away to shout, “HE SAID YES.”

And with that, the clearing flooded with people. Richie jerked out of his arms as they were bombarded by bodies and noise. Beverly, clinging to Richie and planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Ben, ruffling their hair like a proud dad. Stan, shaking Eddie’s hand in a stiffly formal way as Patty cried happy tears beside him. Mike, lifting him up in a bear hug whilst Bill watched wistfully, patting him on the shoulder when he was freed. And Adrian and Don, of course, rushing Richie like a two-man army and attacking him with wild hugs and screams of delight. Richie was, for once, speechless.

“Congrats guys!”

“Bill, you owe me 20 bucks, I told you Richie would cry immediately.”

“Goddamnit…”

“I’m so happy for you sugar, ARGH you deserve this!”

“So fucking proud of you, Trashmouth!”

When Richie finally found his voice, he turned to Eddie. He always turned to Eddie. “You _fucker_ , you planned all of this?!”

Eddie shrugged modestly. “Yeah. I wanted to be the romantic one for once.”

“Oh my god.” This Richie addressed to the gathering. “None of you assholes told him?”

When they all looked a little sheepish, Eddie’s smile vanished. “What? What did they not tell me?”

Wordlessly, Richie pulled a ring box out of his pocket. Eddie’s world stood still. “You… you were gonna…?”

“Tomorrow. When everyone was here.” Richie opened the box to reveal a wedding band the colour of dark, varnished wood – it took Eddie a second to realise that was because it _was_ dark, varnished wood. “It’s, uh, made out of an ash tree,” Richie mumbled, suddenly conscious of all the attention sent his way. “I-it’s not the, uh, same tree or anything, but um-”

“What the fuck.”

Richie’s eyes flew up, creased in concern. “Eds?” he questioned, uncertain.

“What the fuck,” Eddie said again, his eyes filling his tears.

“Uh…”

“That’s the most romantic shit ever.” He shook his head, the tears falling freely now. “How dare you. The fuck.”

“Are you okay?”

“No I’m not okay, you’re so… you’re too…” Eddie sobbed, not quite believing it.

“Okay, I have no idea what’s happening right now.”

“That’s got so much thought in it, man, I hate you.”

“Aw hey, c’mere.” Richie drew him into his arms, kissing him gently on the top of his head. “Yours did too. You even used-”

“Flashcards!” Eddie wailed into his shirt. “Fucking flashcards man…”

“Baby, I cried.”

“Oh that means nothing, you cried at a coffee commercial yesterday,” Eddie snapped through his tears. He nuzzled his face against Richie’s shirt to remind him he didn’t mean it. It was mustard coloured. Red crosses. He’d bought it for him a few months ago in a thrift store that didn’t look like it had a 0 hygiene rating. Richie hadn’t taken it off since. Eddie fisted his hands in the shirt and pulled away, scowling up at him. “Gimme your ring.” He gestured to the one he’d just slipped onto his finger.

Richie blinked. “Wha-no.”

“Give it back, you propose to me.”

“That’s not how it works, Eds, _you_ proposed to _me_.”

“Well I take it back!” Eddie grabbed for his hand but Richie held it aloft, a grin spreading across his face. “No! No, I retract my previous statement, I’m divorcing you, I’m not marrying you, you marry me.”

“Eds, holy shit!” Richie was laughing, darting out of his way as Eddie made a dive for it. “No take-backs, you loser, you’ve already done it.”

“WELL I CHANGED MY MIND PROPOSE TO ME RIGHT NOW YOU FUCKER.”

“No way you little gremlin, you proposed to me!”

“NO YOU.”

“And they’re back,” Beverly said, causing a smattering of laughter through the group. “I was starting to worry, hearing them get so sappy.”

Eddie and Richie flipped her off in almost perfect synchronicity – and that was when Eddie noticed something else. The very obvious lack of a bright green leash on Richie’s wrist. Richie’s eyes bugged as he realised it too. “Oh SHIT.”

They all spent the majority of the night Eddie had planned on drinking and singing and causing noise complaints looking for Dandelion. It wasn’t how Eddie had wanted it to go; being dragged through foliage after a wayward cat was never high on his agenda, especially not on the day he got engaged. But when they found him sat serenely on the porch with his inescapable harness mysteriously hanging from a tree, Eddie just laughed. Because, sure, he couldn’t control everything, but that was what made it interesting.

And, as he kissed Richie amid cheers and applause from his friends and allowed him begrudgingly to slide his ring onto his finger, he knew whatever happened next, being right next to Richie fucking Tozier was where he wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! Driftwood is finished, a story I started a few weeks before the Great 2020 Lockdown and now we here. I won't clog this up with too much stuff because it won't sound sincere, but thank you so much to everyone who's been following, commenting and tweeting at me - it's a big jump coming into a new fandom and I'm so glad people have enjoyed it!   
> I am planning a set of little fics very soon that are based on romcoms and have a couple of pairings: we're talking one for bike, a stanpat, a benverly and of COURSE another reddie, and I'll chat more about that on my Twitter @monoclepony, so either subscribe here or follow me there to keep up to date on stuff and... I guess see me cry about writing? Also my DMs are open for screaming too. That I can promise you.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first for this fandom, so please be gentle~  
> You can find me on Twitter here @purple_tealeaf


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